Just Say When
by isiosms
Summary: Hermione figures out it's a lot more complicated that flipping the hour-glass. What lengths will she go to to change the past? A failed time-turner fic that evolved into something else entirely. Bellamione.
1. A Picture Worth a Thousand Words

Hey everyone!

This is my first attempt at writing something long and involved. I'm about 100K words in and planning to post as I edit.

This story spans book years 5-7 (and some time after), and is maybe half-canon-compliant and half stuff I came up with. I should warn you that the beginning is very, very slow - Bellatrix and Hermione don't even meet until about 40K words into it. Also, it's going to be a good while before they can even tolerate each other, and Hermione will be an adult. Actually, I still feel weird about the age difference thing, and will try to compensate for it by taking a few artistic liberties.

* * *

1995.

Time was a mysterious thing, Hermione thought. Some moments could flicker past like faces in the window of an oncoming train; others could linger stubbornly, as though unsure of which path they ought to take. Watching the slow pulsing rhythm of raindrops hitting the glass, she felt as though time had paused, wondering how to proceed, how to unwind the many threads it held within itself.

Maybe it was this house - a dusty monument of faded grandeur- that made one feel like the past was much more real than anything. Grimmauld Place seemed to wheeze with the weight of its history, as though the lingering presence of all that had ever been said, hoped, and mourned here was pushing out at the very window panes. It was suffocating.

A book lay open in her lap. It was _A History of Time-Travel_ by Bathilda Bagshot, and it was the only one on the subject she'd been able to find in the Black library. Mostly, it was a painstaking explanation of the various rules and regulations pertaining to time-magic, and a history of how the Unspeakable Sub-Division for the Study of Time came into being. It also described the misadventures of Eloise Mintumble, who, in 1899, had traveled back more than four hundred years, caused two-dozen wizards to be "un-born", and drastically changed her own timeline. All in all, the reading wasn't a complete waste of time, but it wasn't really useful either.

Hermione sighed, rather forcefully, rousing Crookshanks from his extended afternoon nap. The part-Kneazle pinned her with a look of absolute disdain, flicked his tail irritably, and curled in on himself yet again.

Out of habit, Hermione flipped to the back of the book to look up an endnote.

It read:

 _# 719. Information from private interview with Judith Mintumble, January 15, 1961. J. Mintumble carried on her mother's work in time-research, with perhaps even more tragic consequences. As of this printing, she is serving a life sentence in Azkaban for a murder she committed in the 17th century._

 _That's strange_ , Hermione thought. _Why would you go so far back in time to kill someone? And how would anyone ever know that you did?_

Getting up, she went to the bookshelf and picked up a copy of _Wizard Who's Who;_ flipping to _M,_ she scanned the page until she found Mintumble. There was a brief bio of the mother, but only a couple of lines on the daughter, which told her that Judith had been an Unspeakable, had never married, and was generally considered to be a few sandwiches short of a picnic. She had been born in 1898 and was apparently still alive.

Unsatisfied, but unable to think of anywhere else to look for information, Hermione decided to give up her research for now and go down to dinner.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Weasley was already setting down a heaping platter of beef and mashed potatoes.

As the aproned witch turned her back, Ron snuck a quick spoonful into his mouth.

"Ronald! I can _hear_ you chewing! Wait for everybody else to come down."

"Sorry mum," he mumbled around a mouthful of food, drawing a look of disgust from Hermione.

"Honestly, Ron, I don't understand why you can't swallow before you speak."

He glanced at her, eyes bright, and snuck another piece of steak into his mouth. "'Cause life's too short, 'Mione."

She made a face at him and crossed her arms, looking very self-righteous indeed.

Ginny came in then, followed by Fred and George, who both had an air of giddiness about them.

"Say, Hermione…" Fred began.

"Fancy a sweet?" George finished, holding out a little wooden box with an assortment of colourful candies.

Hermione studied it suspiciously, and then looked to Ginny, who was deliberately avoiding her gaze. But Hermione could see that her neck held the traces of what seemed to have been an enormous boil.

"What happened to your neck, Ginny?"

The girl was about to open her mouth when the twins said in unison: "Nothing!"

"I know you two had something to do with it!" Hermione glared at them.

"Us?" Fred sounded scandalized. "How could you _ever_ think that?"

Their sister gave a long-suffering sigh. "These two are letting me listen in on Order meetings with them. In exchange, I've got to eat their stupid Blistering Bubble Gum or whatever it's called."

"Skiving Snackbox. Prototype phase." Fred whispered, shooting his mother a nervous glance as she rummaged around in a cupboard across the room. "But it's not painful, we swear! Just a bit of fun that's going to help us get out of History of Magic."

"First of all," Hermione began,"experimenting on your sister is completely unacceptable! And I don't understand why you would want to miss History of Magic. Its a terribly important N.E.W.T level subject, you know."

"N.E. ? George, I don't know why we've never considered-"

"The pecuniary possibilities of a product that could get you out of-"

"YES! We could do a special line for O. too-"

They carried on like this while Hermione shook her head in exasperation and poured herself a glass of pumpkin juice.

As the minutes wore on, others began to filter into the room. There was Sirius and Professor Lupin, both of whom looked rather the worse for wear, like a couple of old suits left to the moths in the back of the closet. There was Mad-Eye, with his unsettling gaze and lingering odor of sour ale. Elphias Doge shuffled in, followed by Arthur Weasley, who wore his characteristic look of good-natured befuddlement. Dinner was a subdued affair, with the adults talking in strained whispers at one end of the long table and the children, huddled at the other end, struggling to look as though they weren't eavesdropping. Hermione, glancing up periodically, found Harry's godfather staring in her direction, as though looking at her but seeing someone else. It left her feeling uneasy.

Afterwards, she went upstairs with Ginny. They spent an hour or two playing Gobstones, and then Hermione read _Hogwarts: A History_ for the umpteenth time until she fell asleep. And, as the shadows blossomed in every corner of the room, she dreamt:

 _Stumbling through a dead heavy fog, she was making her way towards lights, somewhere up ahead. Everything seemed unnaturally bright and there was a rushing in her ears, growing louder and louder. The journey seemed interminable, as though her feet were moving forward, but so slowly..._

 _Somewhere- close by or far away, she couldn't tell- a woman screamed._

 _She could make out the bare outlines of wreckage on the ground. Blistering metal and melted plastic and a thin string of blood leading toward..._

 _There was a huddled figure before her, trembling, weeping, but she couldn't stop, it wasn't what she needed to find…in the distance, she could just make out the shape of something…_

 _An overwhelming feeling of dread settled in the pit of her belly. She came closer. Praying… praying for…_

 _Suddenly, inexplicably, Harry was there. His face was a frozen mask of contempt._

" _I saw what you did."_

 _Ron too had stepped out of the mists, looking very solemn._

" _You're a liar, Hermione."_

" _No!" she gasped, "No...no…no… I…" but before she could finish, her hand was moving, as though pulled by invisible strings, and there was a burning… everything was burning…_

Hermione woke with a gasp, breathing hard. The collar of her t-shirt felt too hot and the covers were surely going to swallow her up. In the twin bed across, Ginny was still sleeping soundly.

She leapt out of bed, and as quietly as she could manage, made her way to the bathroom, where she spent a good quarter-hour by the toilet, heaving up bile. It wasn't the first time. She'd been having nearly the same dream every night for two weeks. But this time, her friends had appeared in the dream for some reason, judging her, hating her. A wave of overwhelming sadness washed over, and she began to sob, forehead pressed against the cool tile of the floor.

What kind of person was she, that could have done what she had done? Just _one moment_ of anger, of weakness, and everything had splintered apart so very badly.

She sobbed until her body couldn't take anymore, and then she simply sat staring out of the bathroom window at the brick wall of #11, fingers absently rubbing at the angry scar on her wrist.

Eventually, she managed to pull herself together and decided to go downstairs to get a glass of water. The house seemed unnaturally still; one couldn't even hear the snoring of Mrs. Black's portrait or the echo of Kreacher's crazy muttering. In the hall, dozens of mounted house-elf heads watched her disapprovingly, and Hermione shivered, thinking that perhaps coming down all alone hadn't been the best idea.

Stumbling around in the pitch-black kitchen, Hermione cursed the absence of electricity.

"OW! Hecate's toenails!" she yelped in pain as she stubbed her toe against a bit of furniture. Flailing in the darkness, she fell back against the counter, knocking down some pots.

Suddenly, a manic whizzing filled the air and Hermione felt a million tiny, sharp hands grasping at her face, but all she could do was wave her arms about wildly, hoping to scare off her unseen attackers.

"Lumos," a disembodied voice said, but Hermione, engulfed in a black buzzing cloud, couldn't make out who it belonged to.

"Depulso!" the same voice came again. Then: "Evanesco." She felt a brief, powerful gust in her face and then the whizzing cloud was gone, just like that.

Hermione, now an undignified jumble of limbs sprawled on the floor, looked up to find a young woman looking down at her, laughter clear in her eyes.

"Wotcher'. Name's Tonks."

"Ughh…" was all Hermione could manage. Feeling the heat in her face, she realized she must have been blushing scarlet.

"I reckon you're Hermione Granger? Harry Potter's friend?"

"What…" she steadied her voice, "What _was_ that?"

"Doxies. Nasty little buggers, too, and a whole lot of 'em!" The woman smiled down at her, and Hermione felt a little jitter run down her spine, though she didn't know from what.

"Well, um, thanks for...um... rescuing me."

"Don't mention it. We better take a look at your hand though, looks like they chewed you up pretty good." And indeed, Hermione could see that her left hand was covered with dozens of tiny little imprints of tiny little teeth.

"Accio Murtlap," Tonks called, and a stoppered green vial flew out of Kreacher's pantry and into her waiting palm.

By this point, Hermione had managed to plop herself down in a chair. Surreptitiously, she ran her fingers through her hair, praying that it didn't look like the typical bird's nest she woke up with every morning.

Sitting across, the woman said "Give it here" and without w\aiting for a response, grasped Hermione's wrist and began to apply the brownish goop onto her skin.

Tonks had shockingly pink hair and her bottom lip was pierced. Hermione found her eyes drawn to that little round of metal again and again. She seemed utterly incapable of stringing together a single intelligent sentence at that moment.

Finally, she blurted: "So...you're in the Order?"

"Yup! They let me join a couple of months ago, after I finished up my Auror training."

"You're an Auror?" Hermione was very impressed. "But it's very difficult isn't it? You've got to have top marks in nearly everything."

"Well they ask for five N.E.W.T.s minimum. I had seven." Tonks grinned, looking proud. "Though between you and me, I'm complete rubbish at Potions. Mad-Eye - you've met him already, I bet - vouched for me, the old goat. But I've still got to pass a practical in Poison Detection in July. Don't know what I'm gonna do."

Clearly on the verge of saying something, Hermione opened her mouth, thought better, and shut it again.

"So...er..." Tonks' eyes slid over the girl's pale, puffy face, "Having a rough night?"

"No I'm just..." she paused, searching for the right word. "Homesick, maybe."

Tonks nodded in understanding. "Your parents are Muggles, huh? I don't mean anything by that, you know, my dad's Muggleborn too. Just saying it must be hard not being able to tell them about everything that's going on."

"Yeah." Hermione's voice had grown very quiet, barely audible. "Or protect them."

At home, she had taken to going around in the middle of the night checking and re-checking that the windows and doors were latched. Logically, she knew it wouldn't even keep out a defenseless first-year, let alone a Death Eater, but the mindless routine of it soothed her nerves.

"The Order can put your house under a Fidelius Charm! We just did it for my folks' place. The Burrow too."

"I don't think that's going to happen, somehow," Hermione replied, a cynical edge creeping into her voice. Voldemort had returned a scant few months ago, and one of the first things she had done upon returning home was owl Dumbledore, begging him to put protective wards around her home. She hadn't heard back yet.

Watching Hermione's face grow dark with her thoughts, Tonks took pity.

"Hey, Hermione, what's that _smell_?"

Hermione looked up, and was shocked to see the other witch's nose transform into a long, yellow toucan beak.

"Hmmm...bird? Nope I don't think so! Maybe something more...porcine?" Her nose now morphed into a pink, whiskered pig snout. It wiggled.

Caught off guard, Hermione laughed out loud. The metamorphmagus entertained her like this for another quarter-hour, and then Hermione went back to bed, her heart feeling lighter than it had in a long time.

* * *

The next day they continued cleaning out Grimmauld place. Hermione, Ginny and Sirius worked on sorting some cupboards in the drawing room while Ron and the twins mounted another valiant campaign against the colony of Bundimun living under the couch. By the time Mrs Weasley brought up afternoon tea, neither party was having a lot of success.

Ginny had discovered the hard way that the drawers liked to open and shut unexpectedly, no doubt trying to gobble up some unsuspecting fingers that didn't withdraw quick enough. The twins spent their time dodging streams of foul-smelling acid that periodically shot out from under the sofa, leaving the floor slimy and smouldering where it fell.

Ron kept a safe distance, crouched behind the grand piano. "You two are mental! Why are you jumping right in front where it can see you?"

"Bundimun is a fungus, O brother mine, and fungi don't have eyes!" Fred yelled as he leapt out of the way of another acid stream, rolling across the floor, an empty flask in his hand.

"Well how come it's aiming right at you then?"

"Ah, that's exactly what we wondered. That's why we need to collect some to test in our new Dungbomb line...imagine if they could find the target themselves, you'd never get caught!"

Listening to this ridiculous exchange from across the room, Hermione made a mental note in case she ever had to deal with a mysterious dungbomb attack when she was made a Prefect this year. Shaking her head in exasperation, she went on organizing the contents of one of the drawers. There were a couple of old family photographs, a nasty looking black quill, a broken Sneakoscope that seemed to still be trembling faintly, and an old locket emblazoned with an emerald S on the front.

She picked up the locket, feeling vaguely uneasy. Her fingers examined and prodded it from all angles, but it wouldn't open.

 _Strange…_ Hermione thought. Then, the locket flickered, just for a nanosecond.

It had disappeared and reappeared so quickly that she wasn't sure what it was she had really seen. Just as she was convincing herself that it was merely a trick of the light, it happened again.

And again.

As though the thing was in two minds about whether it should really exist or not.

She dropped the locket as though it had turned blistering hot all of a sudden, jumped to her feet and rushed to the door, dread settling heavy in her stomach.

"Hermione!" Ginny called, a question in her voice.

"Lavatory!" she replied, but instead of heading towards it, she turned and ran up the stairs, not caring where she was going, only wishing to be alone to quell the violent tremor of her nerves. One flight, two - how many floors did this house even have? She didn't stop until she reached the very top, panting.

Hermione was remembering riding the tube through London a few weeks ago. She had had a strange feeling then too, like a sense of impending _something_. She took out her wand just in case, though reasonably sure everyone in her compartment was merely a harmless Muggle.

Clutching it between sweaty palms, she had watched in utter astonishment as it disappeared, just for a second. Then it was back.

She had no idea what to make of it, at all.

For something like that to happen once was odd enough, but _twice_? It was too much to suppose that it was coincidence. Something was going on.

But turning her considerable mental powers to the problem turned up nothing, so Hermione decided she had to go back before her absence raised any questions. Unfortunately, she wasn't exactly sure where she was anymore; Grimmauld place was larger than any of them had realized. Turning the corner, she found herself staring down a long, unlit hallway lined with portraits.

"Lumos," Hermione whispered. Walking forward, face bathed in the eerie blue glow from her wand, she realized that they were all unoccupied. All, that is, except the one at the very end. From far away it had just looked like a black stain on the canvas, but as she came close and raised the blue beam towards it, she realized that it was the image of a woman. But unlike other wizarding portraits Hermione had seen, the subject of this painting was completely still.

 _Perhaps it's a Muggle painting?_ She wondered, but discarded that idea. _Walburga Black would never tolerate anything Muggle in this house, would she?_

Her eyes scanned the frame and wall for some sort of plaque or title, something that would give her a hint, but then-

The dark woman in the painting twitched. It was just a flicker of a motion: barely there, like a half-remembered nightmare, but no less terrifying for that.

Hermione gasped, panic turning icy in her stomach, and took a step back.

 _What the hell is going on here? My wand, that locket, now this…_

A more rational part of her brain insisted that everything always turned out to have a straightforward explanation, but the primal, the here-and-now part that had always managed to keep her alive in the face of impossible odds - it told her to run.

But she stood rooted to spot and as she watched, the painted lady twitched again, but unnaturally. It reminded Hermione of when you put a broken video cassette into the player and it got stuck on one image. Like the film was trying its hardest to keep playing, but couldn't. The whole effect was somehow incredibly creepy, especially since the portrait's eyes seemed to be frozen, gazing at some specter in the distance.

Behind her, a floorboard creaked, and Hermione spun around, wand raised. Given the inexplicable events of the past few minutes, she was half-expecting something to attack her, but it was just Sirius. His face caught the shadows, looking hauntingly skeletal.

"Sirius…" she shuddered. "What...what are you doing here?" He had never resembled a living ghost more than in that moment, Hermione thought.

"I live here, unfortunately." His voice was light and jovial, but his gaze was... desolate, and cold. "Ginny was concerned. You've been gone a while. And, I should tell you that this house is the last place you should be wandering about. My family's collection of Dark Objects - not to mention their obsession with security hexes - rivals the Malfoys'."

"Sorry. Um, Sirius...what happened to all the paintings? They're blank."

"There's quite a few dubious characters in the family line, as I'm sure you can imagine. Their portraits used to be here, but the Order decided it was a security risk. Pity we weren't able to get rid of my mother."

"And this one?" Hermione gestured toward the painted woman in front of her.

"Ah, yes. Bellatrix." She waited, but he didn't elaborate.

"Is she… is she dead?"

"She might as well be." Apparently, Sirius was in no mood to explain, but Hermione was notorious (at least among the Hogwarts staff) for her curiously and her incessant questions.

"What's wrong with her portrait? I almost thought it was a Muggle one, but she kind of... twitches sometimes."

"I'm not really sure. It's always been that way."

"I read that the reason a wizarding portrait moves is because a piece of the soul inhabits it after death-"

"Oh, I doubt if Bellatrix ever had a soul," Sirius interrupted, his tone icy. "There was something wrong with her, even as a child. But you may be right, in a sense. My mother commissioned this while Bellatrix was still alive, no doubt expecting her to die before it was finished. But she never did."

 _That might explain it_ , Hermione though. _The way she seems to be here and not here at the same time._

"So where is she now?"

"Azkaban."

As though the word alone had brought back a ghost of the place itself, Sirius shivered violently. He was, no doubt, remembering his own imprisonment. _Twelve years_ , Hermione thought, _but it must have seemed like a century. A century living a nightmare._

The injustice of it all was staggering. Over the years, Hermione's wide-eyed enthusiasm about the magical world had slowly eroded into weary disillusionment - and hearing Sirius's story had been a particularly faith-shattering step along that journey. She wondered how long this strange dark woman had been there, having the life sucked out of her moment by moment, and whether it was justified.

Hermione didn't think it likely that she would get anything more out of Sirius just then.

"Fancy a cup of tea? You look like you could use it." She tried to give him her best smile.

He nodded, the ghost of a grin hovering about his lips... and for a second she could see a shadow of the reckless, merry youth he had once been.

As they walked away together, Hermione couldn't help but glance back at the portrait of the woman. She looked so… _beautiful? Haunted?_


	2. The Soul of Discretion

Soon enough, the Order had another meeting. It was the first one since Hermione had arrived, but she was not surprised to learn that the youngest Weasleys already had an established routine for eavesdropping. From the disjoint whispers, they could piece together that the conversation revolved around how to safely move Harry from his relatives' to Grimmauld Place. Tonks suggested luring the Dursleys out of their house with an invitation to a "best kept lawn" contest, which Hermione thought was quite clever.

"Anything happen on the watch?" Moody rasped.

Hermione looked to Ginny. "Tonks and Kingsley are spying for us at the Ministry," the younger witch explained. "We think it's at the Department of Mysteries."

Hermione drew a sharp breath. This is exactly what she had been waiting for, maybe if she could just convince Tonks to help her somehow…

"Yes and no," Shacklebolt's deep voice interrupted her train of thought. "Lucius was there again last night, loitering about. Said he had an urgent appointment with the Minister and had gotten off on the wrong floor."

"Oh, likely story." Lupin said, with a snort. "Doesn't he need permission to be on that level?"

"Why would he need permission?" Moody snarled. "He's got half the department heads in his silk-lined pocket, the bastard."

Later, when everyone was still milling about after dinner, Hermione plucked up the courage to approach Tonks. She had settled on the pretext of telling the older witch that she was considering a career as an Auror, which wasn't technically a lie. Hermione was well aware that lying wasn't one of her strengths, so whenever she was forced to do it, she tried to incorporate bits of the truth.

"Oh I knew that was what I wanted to do since I was a kid! Even before Hogwarts. My mum always wanted to be an Auror too, but it was harder for women in those days. Alice Longbottom was the first, you know. She and mum were great friends," Tonks told her.

"Alice Longbottom - you mean Neville's mother? You've met her?"

"Yeah, she sure was something back in the day! Really powerful. It's such a shame what happened." Hermione nodded, an image of Neville's crying, childlike face springing to mind. More that once she'd found him like that, alone in the common room, watching the fire burn down to embers.

The conversation flowed toward Tonks's experience hunting Dark Wizards, of which, admittedly, she had had little so far, and towards the academic requirements of the field.

"Herbology's near completely useless. I don't know why they require it, but there it is. Then they want you to be top notch at Charms and Transfiguration, and pretty proficient in Potions. But I'm sure _you_ don't have to worry about that, Miss Brightest-witch-of-her-age!"

Typically, Hermione loathed that monicker, but coming from the Auror, it made her flush with pride.

"Well I'm not so good with Defense Against the Dark Arts. Harry is _loads_ better! But, then I guess he has to be."

The Auror tilted her head, as though an idea had come to her. "Say, Hermione," she began, a little tentative, "maybe we can help each other out. You teach me some Potions, and I teach you some Defense? How does that sound?"

"Oh." Hermione replied, dumbfounded. "Ummm..." _Say something you great big idiot, don't just stand there like some hapless mouthbreather…._

But "OK" was all Hermione could manage as her heart beat a deafening staccato in her chest. Tonks, for her part, smiled and thought, _Merlin, what an awkward girl_.

She asked Hermione about her plans for the rest of the summer, and they spoke of other things until the younger witch lost her embarrassment somewhere in the easy flow of conversation. And while Hermione couldn't claim to possess any social graces at all (in fact, most of her interactions consisted of patronizing her fellow Gryffindors), Tonks had a certain gift for putting people at their ease.

Finally, Hermione brought the conversation around to the reason she'd come to talk to the Auror in the first place.

"Tonks? There's something I've been researching all summer but am not sure I fully understand…"

The other witch rolled her eyes, but without malice. "Studying in the summer? Why am I not surprised?"

"Well, you see," Hermione continued, sounding so much more nonchalant than she actually felt, "it's about the Trace. I just don't get how they can really pin-point for certain where magic comes from. Take Fred and George, for example. Now they're allowed to use magic, and they can't seem to waste a single opportunity to do so, but… before they were of age, they could have done it too and no one would have been able to tell!"

"Yes it's rather unfair, isn't it? Those who grow up in Muggle households get the short end of the stick, alright."

"But how does it actually work?"

"I'm not an expert or anything, but I know they have a map in the Department of Mysteries. It has a tiny mark for every underage witch and wizard in the UK who lives with Muggles. So you and Potter are probably on there, but the Weasleys wouldn't be."

"So they don't really monitor whether you cast spells... but when magic is performed around you when you're around Muggles?" She fervently wished this was the case- in fact, had counted on it over the last few weeks that she had been using spells outside of school. After all, if what happened at the beginning of the summer wasn't enough to land her in prison, no subsequent "Lumos" or "Accio" would do it.

"Sounds right. I think its a charm that's placed on your Hogwarts letter. Wears off when you come of age, but I'm not sure how."

Hermione recalled when Harry had been blamed for Dobby's well-intentioned mischief in their third year, thinking that it was a rather heavy-handed system, although perhaps in-keeping with the obscurantism of Ministry policies generally.

"But… they don't punish every type of magic, do they? If the Ministry never sends a notice, doesn't that mean that they want to overlook it? Or maybe they're just not very thorough?"

"Hmm… maybe it's because the bloke who's supposed to be watching the map was having a bit of a nap? Boring job, I imagine!" Tonks joked, but this response was profoundly unsatisfying to Hermione, who tried to approach the subject from a different angle:

"And you said this map is in the Department of -" She was interrupted by a jovial call of "Nymphadora!" from the other end of the room.

The Auror cringed. "I've told you not to call me that _a hundred times_!"

It was Remus Lupin, and Hermione felt a sudden, blistering surge of anger for the man, which was odd, because he had been one of her favorite professors. Not to mention her boundless respect for him as a victim of an unjust and deeply prejudiced society, who nevertheless managed to be a kind, understanding, and very knowledgeable person.

"Sorry, _Miss Tonks_ , I was just wondering if you'd like to accompany us to the Cauldron for a pint? Sirius got ahold of some Polyjuice and wants to get out of the house for a bit."

"Oh, well, I guess that would be alright," Tonks replied, pleasure conspicuous on her face. "As long as we take the necessary precautions, of course. Constant Vigilance!" she thundered, and her imitation of Moody was so good that several heads turned towards her in alarm.

Tonks had already turned to follow Lupin, when she seemed to recall the young Gryffindor she was abandoning mid-sentence.

"Catch you later Hermione!" she tossed out, clearly too excited to be apologetic.

Feeling inexplicably bereft and more than a little furious, Hermione stormed out of the kitchen, waking the Black matriarch as she shut the door a touch too forcefully. Shrill calls of "filthy scum", "plague on my house" and "disgusting Mudbloods" filled the hallway, but the object of the abuse was deaf to it, for once.

 _Doesn't she realize how important this is for me?_ Hermione fumed. _What does she even have to say to that...that…_

But she couldn't bring herself to insult a professor, even in the privacy of her own mind.

"Mione! Hey! Wait up!" A voice called to her, and she reluctantly turned around, half-way up the stairs.

"What _is it_ , Ronald?" He really was the _last_ person she wanted to see at that moment.

The boy paused, indecisive, and then, summoning his courage, blurted: "Are you alright?"

"Me? I'm just _fantastic_." Her tone could have cut ice. "Why ever do you ask?"

 _In for a knut, in for a Galleon,_ Ron thought.

"Well…it's just you've been weird this whole time, since you got back. Ginny's noticed too - "

"Don't bring me into this!" The youngest Weasley, who had followed her brother out of the kitchen, now stood at the bottom of the stairs wearing a disapproving look that she would have been horrified to learn was identical to her mother's.

"Weird? And what's that supposed to mean?" Hermione demanded. She had been trying so hard to act as though nothing was the matter.

"I don't know...moody, sulking, staring off into nothing... just, you know, _weird_."

"Well…" Hermione paused, searching for words, "well, maybe I'm just tired of people butting their obnoxious noses in where they don't belong!"

Somehow, Ron had a feeling that she wasn't just talking about him.

With that, she stomped all the way up the stairs. A moment later, they heard the resentful _slam_ of her door.

Ginny shook her head. "I told you to just leave it alone."

"Well I can't, can I?" her brother replied, exasperated. "Not when she's going about acting like the bloody sky is falling, or something."

"I think she's just sad, Ron."

"I bet it's because that Bulgarian prat stopped writing her. I _told_ her that nothing good would ever come of it!"

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Well, it must be exhausting to be so wise."

* * *

Another gloomy morning found Hermione back in her favorite window seat in the drawing room. _Curiously Convenient Charms of the 11th Century_ , _An Introduction to Time-Numerology for the Advanced Arithmancer, A Comprehensive Guide to Concealment Potions,_ and a number of other enormous tomes were piled high beside her. The cup of tea Ginny had brought her, now long cold, sat atop it all.

 _Things are looking grim_ , Hermione thought as she rubbed again at her sore shoulder. It had just been made painfully clear to her that she was an absolutely inadequate duellist. Tonks was too nice to say so, of course, but she had seen it written all over the older witch's face.

They had started their lessons with Potions: basic antivenin, Polyjuice, Veritaserum antidote. Tonks was an impatient student, and her clumsiness was ill-suited to the precise art of Potion-making, but Hermione felt that they were making progress. Teaching Tonks to brew was, at the very least, not as unpleasant - or dangerous- as teaching Neville.

Then, they moved on to defense drills, and everything quickly went south.

" _Hermione!" The Auror called, while the younger witch crouched lower behind what had once been a lovely Sopophorous bush, but was now scorched and oozing a yellowish mist._

" _You can't hide forever. At some point you're actually going to have to cast a spell, you know!"_

 _They'd been going at it for nearly two hours, and the garden of Grimmauld Place looked rather the worse for wear. If Tonks didn't get her soon, she was sure that the Venomous Tentacula - which had started quivering uncontrollably and shooting acid in every direction - would._

 _But Hermione couldn't seem to make herself move. All she could hear was the blood rushing in her ears. The sense of panic was overwhelming, and no matter how many times she told herself that Tonks wouldn't hurt her, her body didn't seem to get the message._

 _As she looking around distractedly, her eyes came to rest on a shiny black stone and an idea began to materialize._

" _Glisseo," she whispered, and the stone transformed into a smooth slate in which she could see her face mirrored. Angling it carefully around the edge of the tree trunk behind her, Hermione tried to spot the Auror's reflected form._

 _Finally she saw Tonks, partially obscured by the columns of an old, roofless gazebo._

 _Taking a deep, steadying breath, Hermione rose with lightning speed and fired a "Confringo!" in the Auror's direction, ducking back down for cover. There was the sound of something exploding, followed by a sharp yell._

 _Hermione's heart nearly skipped a beat. "TONKS! Are you OK?"_

" _Yeah, you great big bloody prat, I'm fine!" But the Auror's voice was strained, and her erstwhile opponent rose cautiously and, seeing the other covered in rubble, ran to her side._

" _Oh my goodness! I'm SO sorry!" Hermione levitated the broken stone away, and her hands frantically searched the other woman's body for injuries. "Are you hurt? I'm so sorry."_

" _It's my own fault, I should have seen it coming." She gave Hermione a grim smile, shifting into a seated position. "Don't look so guilty. It's a duel. The point is to get one over on the other person, and you certainly did that."_

 _The girl's expression reminded Tonks of a dog that had been caught chewing a slipper. Hermione ducked her head and began healing some superficial scratches on the older witch's arms, but Tonks narrowed her eyes as a thought crossed her mind. "You were aiming for the wall." It wasn't a question._

" _Yes." Hermione looked away. "But I swear I didn't want-"_

" _No, using your surroundings to your advantage is good form. It's just… you don't really fight like a Gryffindor."_

" _Well, I got tired of getting knocked on my arse."_

 _Hermione had spent the first hour of their practice session unsuccessfully dodging Tonks' binding spells. Eventually, she'd sent an angry Mandrake flying at her opponent and used the commotion to find shelter._

" _Don't get me wrong - sneak attacks can be really useful in battle. But if your reflexes aren't good, you won't stand a chance."_

" _I know." Hermione sighed. "It's just...I'm afraid of getting hurt, or hurting you. Accidentally. I mean, violence is just so..." she trailed off, lost for words._

 _The Auror's face turned somber. "We're at war, Hermione, and Death Eaters aren't going to play nice, especially with you. If you ever find yourself facing one of 'em, you need to win. Or you won't live long enough to regret it."_

A sharp stinging sensation pulled Hermione out of the memory, and she realized that Crookshanks was trying to get her attention by kneading at the fabric of her jeans. She raised a careless hand and began to stroke behind his ears, drawing a quiet purr. He looked up at her and tilted his head, inquisitive.

"I don't know what to do anymore, Crooks!"

Hermione looked around at the chaotic spread of books, lists, maps and notes on the floor, and sighed. She felt a looming hopelessness weighing her down; she was out of ideas, out of leads to follow, and nearly out of time. For all the duelling tips the Auror had given her, she hadn't gleaned a single thing about the Department of Mysteries or the security measures at the Ministry.

The half-kneazle nipped at the now stilled hand, and it resumed petting him.

"Do you think I should find a better library?" She looked expectantly at her familiar, and he began to twirl languidly under her ministrations, brushing her with his luxuriant tail.

"You're absolutely right: I need to get back into the Restricted Section. Maybe McGonagall will- "

But this thought was cut short by a loud _BANG,_ as the door flew open and slammed hard into the wall. Suddenly, the room was a commotion of flapping wings, flailing limbs, and incoherent cursing.

"Ger'off me, you wretched bird!" Ron shouted, one hand clasped protectively over his face and the other waving blindly at the white, feathery whirlwind circling his head.

"Ron! Stop it, you're going to hurt her!" Hermione rushed forward, worried, while Crookshanks gave the entire scene a single scornful glare and sauntered out of the room.

"Not before she claws my eyes out! Just HELP ME GET IT OFF!"

"Hold still then!" She aimed her wand and cast a nonverbal _Immobulus_ , causing the confused looking owl to float to the ceiling as though trapped inside an invisible balloon.

Ron, now entirely covered in white fluff, looked up at the dazed bird and shook his head.

"Hedwig's finally lost it. I knew it was only a matter of time,what with living with Harry!"

"Don't be ridiculous. You probably forgot to give her a treat."

An uncharacteristically serious look came over the redhead's face. "Actually, I think it's because of this." There was a ripped scrap of parchment in his outstretched hand. "It's from Harry."

Hermione took it, and read aloud: " _I've just been attacked by..._ " she gasped, but continued, " _B-by dementors...and I might be expelled from Hogwarts. I want to know what's going on and when I'm going to get out of here._ " Their eyes found each other's, sharing a moment of fear for their friend. It was a feeling both were used to.

" _Dementors?_ Why? More importantly, _how_?" Surely the only explanation was that the horrible creatures had escaped from Azkaban, where they were captives just as much as the wizards on whose spirits they subsisted. But why would they target Harry?

"I don't know anything else, Hermione. But I think we should write to him." Things between them had been strained since the argument on the stairs, but they bonded, as they often did, over their shared concern for Harry Potter.

"But Dumbledore said not to, no matter what."

"But it's not right! I can't stand that they want to keep us all in the dark about everything. _Especially_ Harry."

Hermione couldn't disagree. And while she was not willing to disobey a direct order from the Headmaster, she refused to do nothing. They had to talk to someone who would listen to reason. "Come on. Let's go find your dad. They need to go get Harry _now_."


	3. The Fellow-Traveller

The sun rose resentfully over a bleak city street, reflected in the widows of Number 12 Grimmauld Place as though they had been set ablaze. The house was dead silent except for Ginny's soft snores. A door opened and shut somewhere, and then, muffled footsteps approached and quickly faded.

 _Must be Harry_ , Hermione thought, as she pulled on a jumper and tiptoed to the door and down the hall. She hadn't slept at all, too afraid to miss her chance - the only chance she would likely ever get. Just a scant few days ago she'd been completely despondent, convinced that she would never bring any of her plans to fruition. But then an opportunity to get into the Ministry had all but fallen into her lap. Wasn't it almost like fate?

Clammy hands grasped the doorknob and twisted - with utmost care. She edged into the shadowed room, and, seeing that Ron was still fast asleep in the twin bed by the window, breathed a sigh of relief. Harry's trunk stood at the foot of the other bed, and Hermione began to rifle through it. Finally, she felt the silky fabric of the invisibility cloak between her fingers.

Downstairs, she lingered in the shadows of the kitchen even though she knew that neither Harry nor Mr. Weasley could see her as they prepared to leave for the Ministry hearing.

The journey proved to be fairly uneventful, and she was certain that she had made her way completely undetected until Harry passed through the turnstile into the subway station, and she'd had to press against him to make it though. He turned suddenly, as though sensing a presence at his back, but his eyes searched the crowd to no avail.

After a terrifying ride in the red telephone box, where she clung like wallpaper to the glass of the tiny cabin, desperately trying to avoid bumping into Mr. Weasley, they finally arrived in the Ministry atrium. Dodging the sour-faced early morning commuters swarming around her, Hermione couldn't help but notice the enormous fountain in the center of the long hall. She saw that Harry was looking at it too. The adoring upturned faces of the house elf, the goblin, and the centaur left a bad taste in her mouth.

Security at the Ministry seemed to entail a solitary wizard in rather eccentric teal robes and pince-nez who was too preoccupied by the Daily Prophet crossword to pay anyone much mind. Hermione didn't know whether to be concerned or relieved; after all, Voldemort had just returned and would certainly have sent spies to infiltrate the Ministry. She hoped that they had had a tougher time sneaking in than she.

After following Harry and Mr. Weasley though the golden arch, she was nearly deterred when she realized they were about to board another lift. Once more, she found herself pressed to the wall, one amongst a small crowd of wizards crammed into the tiny cabin like sardines into a tin. She was immeasurably glad to have had the foresight to place a strong repellent charm on the outside of the cloak: no one bumped into her.

Seemingly oblivious to the teenager in their midst, they prattled on about regulations and traded gossip. Only the mutant fire-breathing chicken, carried in a cardboard box by some official from the Pest Advisory Bureau, seemed aware of her presence, and Hermione spent an unsettling five minutes pinned under its steely, all-knowing glare.

The last occupants, including Harry and , got off at Level 2, Department of Magical Law Enforcement. As soon as the rickety grate slammed closed behind them, Hermione reached forward and pressed the button marked with a faded "9", and waited.

Nothing happened.

Feeling the first tendrils of fear uncoil in her belly, she pressed it again but the metal cage, now hanging precariously somewhere in the bowels of the Ministry's labyrinthine elevator shafts, refused to budge. She began to wonder if the lifts were keyed to respond only to sanctioned Ministry employees, and, in a movement reminiscent of a mischievous four-year old, pressed the buttons of all the other floors. But still, nothing happened.

 _Shit,_ Hermione thought. _Fucking shit. What if I can't get out? What if I die in here?_

But even as she was about to give herself over to panic, the cabin lurched and she almost lost last night's dinner as she was pulled downwards with terrifying speed. The elevator came to a grinding halt on Level One and two wizards got in; one of them seemed to have a root vegetable growing on the side of his head, and the other, she soon learned, was escorting him to the Muggle-Worthy Excuse division.

And so it went. She'd decided that her best bet was to wait it out - someone had to go down to the Department of Mysteries eventually, right?

But unfortunately, it turned out that the D.o.M. wasn't much more popular than Misuse of Muggle Artifacts, and hours passed as she was (nauseatingly) shuttled back and forth between levels two and eight. At first it had been almost thrilling... she could be discovered any moment, she could run into someone really famous, she could overhear some Ministry secret.

But by the time the lunch-hour rush rolled around, Hermione had realized that the average Ministry employee had all the awareness of a blind Skrewt and little to talk about besides this season's Chudley Cannons roster. Also, she was now _intimately_ familiar with the complexities of all the interdepartmental romantic entanglements, having paid embarrassed witness to more than one illicit tryst.

When the lift was stalled and unoccupied, she passed the time by reading the flying memos, which proved rather more informative. She learned that Fudge had appointed a Ministry Liaison for the Elimination of Misinformation in the Press (and was glad to see that it was not Rita Skeeter), that some witch named Umbridge (who seemed inordinately fond of sending inane but long-winded memos) was going to be evaluating standards at Hogwarts this year, that the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures had received a sizable endowment to extend "diplomacy" to the Giant colonies, and many other miscellaneous facts.

Finally, fate smiled upon her, in the unlikely form of Lucius Malfoy.

He entered, looking about, and Hermione held her breath as his gaze passed over the corner where she was pressed against the wall. But he merely turned, shutting the gate with the butt of his cane as a couple of witches rushed towards it, evidently hoping that he would hold the lift.

He didn't, of course. And though Hermione couldn't see his expression, she imagined that he wore a superior sneer as he faced the disappointed-looking witches.

Then, they were off. The lift passed several floors, and then a man Hermione didn't know got on.

"Yaxley," the blond-haired wizard greeted him.

"Mr. Malfoy. We missed you at The Twelve-Toed Troll last week."

"My apologies. I had to see a witch about a leaky cauldron." The phrase was innocuous enough, but stilted, as though it had been repeated too many times. With a flash of intuition, Hermione realized that this was some type of code.

"Perhaps you'll join us next time." Yaxley replied, and, reaching out, pressed the number nine button with the tip of his wand. Then he continued, in a hushed tone: "Is it done?"

The blond wizard chuckled, but it was a sound without mirth. "Oh yes. I think our new _friend_ is going to prove very useful."

At long, long last, the elevator voice said "Department of Mysteries" and the elder Malfoy made his exit, followed closely by a cautious Hermione. They found themselves in a long, unadorned hallway with a black door at one end and a staircase at the other. Malfoy stood a long moment, glaring at the door as though willing it to open, but of course, it did not oblige.

"Bugger," he muttered under his breath, turned around and stalked to the stairwell at the other end. Should she follow him? Surely he was up to something suspicious?

But no. The door - as she now noticed- was marked with a small brass plaque labeled "Department of Mysteries". Everything she'd worked so hard on - all of her tireless research- culminated in this moment.

"Guess we're about to find out if I'm as good as they say," she muttered, skirting the line between arrogance and hysteria. A small opalescent vial had been sitting in her pocket all day. She pulled it out.

Had a random passerby happened upon the scene at that moment, they would have been flabbergasted to see a hand appear, seemingly out of thin air, and pour a pale liquid onto the face of the door. They may have been more shocked still, to see the door melt away into a gooey black puddle, only to reconstitute itself a moment later, as though nothing had happened at all.

But something had happened. A certain Muggle-born witch had accomplished what a half-dozen Death Eaters could not in months of trying- she had broken into the Department of Mysteries.

But her sense of victory was short lived as she found herself in a dark, circular room with many unmarked doors. She hadn't even dared imagine what she would do if she got this far. Weighing her options, Hermione realized that she couldn't simply enter a door at random: the workday wasn't over yet, what if there was someone on the other side? Reconciling herself to another long wait, Hermione found a spot between two doors where no one would accidentally trip over her and sat down.

A couple of hours later, Unspeakables began to filter out of their respective departments. Each came to the center of the room and called "Exit!", opening the way to the hall.

Eight o'clock came and went, and even the most dedicated were long gone, yet Hermione still waited. Her stomach rumbled furiously: the last thing she'd eaten was a rather indifferent mince pie pilfered from a lunch-trolley in the lift. Little did she imagine how much the endless evenings spent in a stiff-backed chair in library would have prepared her for this moment: her limbs were numb from stillness and cold, and her hunger pangs were nearly intolerable, but her mind was crystal clear.

Only when the hands on her wrist-watch read midnight, did she stand and approach a door at random. Entering cautiously, she saw that the room beyond was drab and dimly-lit, filled with rows of desks. At the center stood an enormous glass tank filled with dark liquid, through which several white orbs drifted languidly. Approaching, she was horrified to realize that the orbs were in fact floating brains; a morbid sort of curiosity drew her closer still and she reached out to touch the glass.

 _Stop it, Hermione! This isn't what you came here for!_

Snatching back her hand, she continued on to the other end of the long, rectangular room, and was confrontod by another set of nondescript doors without handles. _All this damn place has is doors and more doors_ , she thought, entering the one on the right. While the brain room had been desolate and rather mundane, the room she entered now was otherworldly, filled with hundreds of glowing blue lights that stretched in every direction as far as the eye could see.

Soon she realized that it wasn't lights she was seeing, but many tiny glass orbs that reflected the blue flames of the torches on the wall. She approached one of the shelves and saw that beneath each orb was a small plaque with a name and a date on it. A strange solemnity hung heavy in the air, as though she were standing in an old cathedral or some ancient shrine.

A faint cough echoed somewhere, and Hermione froze.

Footsteps approached, achingly slow. Someone was muttering:

"Cartwright… Let's see…Cole… pronounced in 1764, how fascinating….hmmm, Cupplebottom… ah there you are!"

Between the shelves, Hermione spied an ancient witch, who removed a glass ball from her robes and placed it in its spot with utmost care. The witch squinted down the row, and with a small clucking noise, approached another ball and, taking out a rag, proceeded to wipe the surface furiously. Finally satisfied, she walked on, aisle after aisle, straightening, rearranging and cleaning the small orbs.

Hermione wondered how long the poor woman had been doing this job. A century at least, by the look of her.

At one point she passed right by the invisible Gryffindor, and Hermione held her breath as the old woman's surprisingly shrewd eyes seemed to look right at her, but she turned away to continue her endless patrol.

As silently as she could manage, Hermione went back the way she had come, and into the brain room, where she tried another door.

Finally, she entered the room she'd come here to find. It was surprisingly bright inside and the air was filled with the incessant rhythmic chatter of a thousand different clocks. It was like a scene out of Alice in Wonderland.

Hermione didn't dwell too long on what possible purpose all these clocks could serve, but walked through the maze of desks towards the cabinet against the far wall. The cabinet which held the Ministry's entire collection of Time-Turners. There were instruments of many different sizes, with the largest used for traveling back a millisecond and the tiniest used to go back as much as a single day.

Hermione picked out one of the latter and pocketed it, resisting the overwhelming urge to bounce with exhilaration. Although she would never, _ever_ , admit it to anyone - least of all her best friends, whom she had lectured far too often- breaking the rules gave her a feeling of euphoria she couldn't get from anything else. Especially when breaking rules got her what she wanted.

The next task proved to be significantly more tedious. She searched the shelves and drawers for research she could use, but was frustrated to discover that most of the employees in the department seemed to be working on theoretical models of time travel, which, although employing some fascinating Arithmancy techniques, were virtually useless in helping her actually travel back any significant length of time. Nevertheless, Hermione made copies of many files using the _Geminio_ charm (courtesy of _Curiously Convenient Charms of the 11th Century_ ) and decided that it was time to leave.

But there was one more thing she had to see first. After trying her luck with a couple other doors, she found herself in a records hall of some sort. There were rows upon rows of filing cabinets; in fact, it could have been any ordinary Muggle office if not for the enormous map pinned to one wall, on which many tiny glowing dots scurried about like insects.

It kind of reminded her of the Marauder's Map, but much larger. Each dot seemed to represent a person (whose name was written below). Several were familiar: Colin Creevey and his brother, the irritating Hufflepuff Finch-Fletchley, Dean Thomas, a couple of Ravenclaws in the year below… and Harry Potter.

His little dot was glowing gently in the region of Islington, and she hoped that he was alright. She looked at it fondly for a moment and then her gaze drifted to central London, where she realized that something was missing. Her own dot.

She cast _Specialis Revelio_ at the parchment. Twice. When that produced no results, she scanned the entire map for her name, but it wasn't there.

For a single surreal moment, Hermione looked down at herself to make sure that she still actually existed in this world...and panicked when she saw nothing. Her eyes widened in terror…. but then she remembered that she was still wearing the invisibility cloak.

It was time to find some answers. Approaching a cabinet at random, she yanked out a drawer, and to her great surprise it extended an entire six feet, full to bursting with what must have been hundreds of files. Each was labeled with a name and date, much like the glass orbs in the glowing chamber. She was in the "M"s, and soon her eyes alighted on "McGonagall, Minerva (b. 1935)". The folder was much thicker than it initially appeared, and inside she found a dozen photographs of her Head of House, as well as excruciatingly detailed reports on everything from the witch's Gringotts transactions to the way she took her tea, and, apparently, every single article she'd ever published in _Transfiguration Today_.

 _I knew the Ministry was spying on all of us!_ Hermione thought furiously. She wasn't even a tiny bit surprised, considering everything they'd done - or failed to do - over the years. After ten minutes of searching, she tracked down her own file: "Hermione Granger, (b. 1981)" was wedged between, seemingly, every Greengrass and Goyle that had ever lived.

There were many photos: mostly of her, Harry and Ron, but also some that had Ginny and the other Weasleys.

And there was one of her parents, taken on a vacation when she was six years old. _Back when we were still happy,_ Hermione thought _._ Looking at it now - at her younger self grinning from ear to ear, cheeks smeared in ice cream, at her mother fussing with what was already a bushy mane, and her father captured forever in the middle of an enormous laugh - made her chest feel unbearably tight. She crumpled the photo in her fist.

But then she smoothed it again, and put it in her pocket.

Rifling through the other papers, Hermione found clippings of Rita Skeeter's odious articles, a couple of her best Arithmancy essays, a memo questioning Crookshanks' Kneazle ancestry, and her petition requesting the use of a Time-Turner from two years ago.

Attached to the petition, she was surprised to find a list of what appeared to be the date and duration of every single time she'd used the Time-Turner. Unrolling the parchment, she saw that it nearly reached the floor and raised a sceptical eyebrow.

Surely there was no way she had travelled back so much? But it was true: at the very bottom, the period she'd spent out-of-time was tallied at nearly ten thousand hours.

"WHAT?" Her panic-stricken yell echoed through the long room. The consequences of extensive time-travel were poorly understood and potentially very dangerous.

Her thoughts were tripping over each other: _Is this why I've been feeling so off lately? Is this why strange things keep happening, with that locket and my wand? Is this why…._

Shaking fingers flipped to the first page of the file, the one that listed _name_ , _place of birth_ , _blood status_ , _age-_

Hermione nearly choked on her own tongue.

She was seventeen.

In fact, she'd been seventeen for nearly three months, if you counted every hour she had lived and re-lived, and re-lived…

It was a nightmare. Anything could happen to her now, and there was no one she could tell since, technically, she'd been legally permitted only enough hours for extra classes.

But suddenly, a lot of things made sense. Why there was no Trace. Why the Ministry never found out what she'd done. Why she wasn't in Azkaban.

Realizing that no one could ever see the file in her hands, she whispered "Incendio" and watched it burn.

"Hello?" a voice called out, and Hermione nearly lost her balance as she leapt aside, ducking under a desk and hastily throwing the Invisibility Cloak over herself.

Footsteps approached, unhurried but methodical. "Is anyone there?"

A tall wizard with a mournful face came into view. He paused right by the Trace map and studied the room minutely.

"This is Senior Unspeakable Bode. I urge you to reveal yourself now, and punishment may be mitigated. If not ..." Lightning quick, he turned on his heel and cast a disillusionment charm right at her.

Hermione held her breath, even though she knew the cloak was impervious to that particular spell.

"Hmm...I was so sure, but I suppose…" he muttered. Suddenly something on the floor caught his attention and he approached. It was the pile of ash left by Hermione's file. He knelt down and traced a single finger through the debris. Then, he put the finger in his mouth and squinted.

"Interesting."

 _Stupid girl,_ she chided herself. _You could have just Vanished it, but nooo, it had to be dramatic…._

Senior Unspeakable Bode continued his odd investigation by carefully sniffing the handles on the cabinets, and Hermione took her chance: she crawled out from under the desk and made her way around the corner on all fours, agonizingly slow.

With the door in sight, she realized she'd never be able to open it without tipping him off. Could she afford to wait it out? What if he managed to find her?

She was just beginning to contemplate Stunning him and running for it when the persistent , emerging from one of the aisles, rounded upon her and raised his wand, a look of triumph on his sallow face.

"Homenum revelio!"

The tip of his wand shot out a yellow beam, but before Hermione could even pray for deliverance, the door opened.

Never had she thought she'd be so grateful to see the ancient witch from earlier; in that moment, she could have leapt up and kissed those sunken, papery cheeks.

Bode's spell hit the woman square in the chest and she glowed yellow for a moment.

Raising a sardonic eyebrow, she said: "Ah...Broderick. Should've known it was you. Working late again, are we?"

The wizard fingered the hem of his sleeve, now looking like a contrite schoolboy.

"Well - ahem - yes, I had to come back to get my report for the Obliviator Squad. Fudge needs it first thing."

"What Fudge _needs_ is a good thrashing. Set his priorities straight," the woman muttered, inspiring a twinge of admiration in Hermione.

"Agatha!" The wizard stared, incredulous.

"Oh, don't get your knickers in a twist, you old tweed coat," she replied with a bare grin. "Anyhow, I didn't know the new security protocol calls for throwing spells at your colleagues?"

A slight flush coloured Bode's cheeks. He must have been feeling foolish now, having discovered no intruders. "Well _I_ wasn't aware that the Keeper of the Prophecies had any business in the Surveillance Department!"

The witch snorted. "I _founded_ this department when _you_ were still a snot-nosed little troglodyte. Now, _go home_ before I make you help me lotion my bunions."

Looking more than a little revolted at the prospect, Senior Unspeakable Bode bid a hurried "Goodnight!" and made his exit.

The venerable witch opened one of the doors, but instead of walking through, she stood still, wearing an increasingly irritated expression.

"Well?" she rasped. "Are you waiting for your rear to grow roots in the floor, or are you coming?"

"Me?" Hermione said, and immediately felt stupid. There was no way the woman could see her, was there?

"Yes, you. Now hurry up before some other overzealous soul comes back to straighten his quills."

Utterly discombobulated, Hermione managed to stutter, "Umm...alright."

She passed right in front of the witch into the circular chamber, still cloaked. Unsure of what exactly she was expected to do, and scarcely daring to believe that she may yet walk out of there unscathed, Hermione asked: "Aren't you going to report me?"

Her unlikely savior gave the idea some thought, but discarded it soon enough. "I could, but the paperwork alone would take me a fortnight, and I'm _far_ too old for that."

"Oh. Well, I don't know what to say. Thank you."

The witch nodded stiffly and turned her back on the invisible girl. But, just as she was about to withdraw back into the Hall of Prophecies, she paused with her back to Hermione, and said: "I recognize a fellow traveller when I meet one. Good luck to you."

And then she was gone.


	4. Hormones, or Whatever

Mrs. Weasley threw them a Prefect party. There was a cake and everything, although it wasn't very good. Everybody milled about, drinking Butterbeer and eating cookies shaped like little gold-and-red badges.

The first thing she'd done after sneaking back into Grimmauld Place was use the stolen Time-Turner. Her first impulse had been to go back a few hours just to take a nap, but she couldn't do that. That was how it had all started last time too; at first she was thrilled with her extra classes and with her special secret, but after the tenth all-nighter spent scribbling essays, Hermione began to fear that she was losing her grip on sanity. That's when she started using the Time-Turner to sneak afternoon naps into her impossible schedule. From there, it wasn't such a stretch to start using it to get ahead on homework, do extra research, help half of Gryffindor revise for exams… and before she realized it, she'd added an entire year to her lifetime.

No, she couldn't let herself be carried down that slippery slope again. So instead, she gave the Time Turner fifteen spins, and went back all the way to that morning. While one Hermione was dying of boredom in a Ministry elevator, the other carried on as though she'd never left the house. She got up, had breakfast with the Weasleys, helped with the cleaning, and waited for Harry to return from his hearing.

That was a few days ago, and she'd managed to resist the temptation to use it again since then, mostly because it would have been difficult to avoid running into her other self while stuck in the same house.

Tonks had come again, and they'd spent an entire afternoon in the attic brewing potions and practicing defensive spells. Despite the activity, it had been surprisingly pleasant: a bright spot in an otherwise desperately dreary summer. No one knew what they were doing up there, and it gave Hermione satisfaction to feel like the Auror was singling her out with her attention. That they had a secret together.

Tonks seemed to understand her on a level her friends didn't, and the conversation flowed so easy that Hermione felt like they'd known each other for years. Before she left for the nightly patrol, Tonks had thanked Hermione for her help and given her a long, tight hug.

Which was, perhaps, why Hermione now found herself sulking alone in a corner, miserably watching the Auror laugh at Remus Lupin's stupid jokes, her hand on his forearm. Sirius was standing with them too, smiling benignly upon the scene as though he knew exactly what was going on, and approved.

"Granger," someone rasped, drawing Hermione out of her thoughts.

"Um, hello Professor Moody," she replied, watching as the hunched wizard loaded his plate with more roast potatoes.

"Don't look too happy with your new appointment." He squinted at her with his good eye, while the electric blue whizzed right past her towards the door.

"I am, I swear." But her tone was a bit more defensive than she would have liked.

"Well, as I was telling the Weasley boy, you best be prepared to withstand most major jinxes and hexes. Authority figures always attract trouble!"

And with that unreassuring pronouncement, he turned away to speak with Mrs. Weasley, but not before firing a parting shot : "Things are going to come to a head this year, you better watch your back, Granger!"

"...thanks for the warning..." Hermione muttered to his retreating back.

She watched as Mundungus Fletcher passed the twins a package - contraband, no doubt... Ron continued to brag about his new Cleansweep to anyone who would listen... Mrs. Weasley nagged her oldest son about his ponytail…

An hour passed, maybe more, as she sat listening to the flow of conversation without interest and absently rubbing at the scar on her wrist. As soon as she noticed people starting to put on their coats, she tried to make her escape. Unfortunately, Mrs. Weasley spotted her just as she was nearly through the door.

"Oh, Hermione, dear, come and have another piece of cake. You're still looking a bit pale."

"I'm alright, Mrs. Weasley, thanks," she replied, totally unenthused.

"But I had Kreacher help me with it - look he did these little icing lions...well, they look rather more like fuzzy dragons, but still - I really think he's staring to come round!"

Ron was at her elbow now. "Urgh, Mum, are you sure it's safe to eat? How d'you know that little tosser didn't put razors in it? He sure hates us all enough."

"Mind your tongue, Ronald! I'm sure it's perfectly fine."

In the end, Hermione had to stay and eat the cake. Ron followed her up the kitchen stairs, talking her ear off about the anti-jinx varnish on his new broom, but as they neared the entrance hall, they heard hushed voices and Hermione motioned for Ron to be quiet. None of them had been inducted into the Order yet, so they were eager to eavesdrop on any and all adult conversations they happened across in the hopes of learning something important.

"You're crazy if you let an opportunity like that slip through your fingers, mate." It was Sirius, and Hermione had a sinking feeling that she knew just who he was talking to, and about what.

"I told you, I _don't_ want to talk about it!" Remus replied in a strained tone.

"Why, because you're determined to play the bloody martyr? Get your head out of your arse, Remus, she doesn't care about what you are!"

"Well perhaps she should!"

Sirius grunted in disgust. "All I'm saying is a witch like that won't pine away for you forever."

"She is not _pining_ -"

"Oh, come off it. Everybody can tell she wants it."

 _How_ dare _he talk about her like that, so disrespectful?_ Hermione thought furiously.

She marched all the way down the hall, and, shooting the two an angry look, stormed up the stairs.

The front door opened, and Tonks walked in, already mid-sentence: "...checked the perimeter, nothing suspicious..." Seeing the girl's retreating back, she turned to a confused-looking Ron, who'd just come into view. "What's up with Hermione?"

He shook his head, as bewildered as the rest of them. "No clue." Then, under his breath: "Time of the month, I bet."

Hermione found herself shut up in the bathroom once more, curled in the same corner where she'd spent many a night choking back bile and sobs. She was crying her eyes out, and, most frustrating of all, she wasn't even sure why.

 _The pressure's finally getting to you, you know it is,_ a voice in her head said _. Nothing's going right...its only a matter of time before it all falls apart…_

"That's not true, I...I got into the Ministry!".

 _Yes, and now what? You have no idea what to do now, you idiot. You're just going to fail…._

 _All you ever do is fail..._

 _Everything you touch falls apart in the end…._

"Stop it, stop it, STOP IT!" She shouted at herself, clutching her hair in fistfuls. "Get a grip Hermione!"

Standing on shaky legs, she walked to the mirror and studied her reflection. She looked disgusting. Which was appropriate, because, really, she _was_ disgusting. No wonder Tonks didn't want her.

 _Wait...where did THAT come from?_ Hermione thought, puzzled, but the question made her so uncomfortable that she forced herself to stop thinking of it. Instead, she washed her face and went back to the room, where Ginny was already lying under the covers.

"Nite," she deadpanned, and lay down, facing the wall.

"Hermione…" Ginny began, but fell silent. Long moments passed.

She was just beginning to relax into her pillows when she felt the mattress dent under Ginny's weight.

"Ron may be a prat, but he's got a point, you know. Are you...are you alright?"

"Im fine," she replied, and her tone brooked no argument.

Ginny sighed. "Hermione, you know I can hear you crying at night."

 _Oh god. How embarrassing,_ Hermione though. "Oh...I, um...it's just silly stuff. You know, hormones, or whatever."

Ginny paused for a moment, as though choosing her words carefully. "Does this have anything to do with Tonks?"

Receiving no response, she continued with hesitation: "I know you were raised in the Muggle world, and I don't know what's acceptable there…. but in wizarding society, that kind of thing is, you know, well…."

Hermione's eyes widened. "What are you saying?" she asked, struggling to keep her tone neutral.

"Nothing! I just...I just don't want you to get hurt, Hermione, that's all. People will use any excuse to judge you. Know what I mean?" Ginny's look was both apologetic and pitying.

Hermione nodded. She wasn't sure if she could deal with all of this right now. "Thanks for looking out, Gin," she said finally. "Goodnight."

But she didn't sleep; she lay under the covers long after Ginny's quiet snores filled the room, staring at the ceiling and trying to stifle a rising panic.

She couldn't _believe_ that she'd been so obvious that someone felt compelled to confront her about it. Whatever the hell was going on with her had to stop NOW, before things went too far.

* * *

The first day of term dawned bright - brighter than any morning she could recall in the past two months. It wasn't much, but it fortified Hermione's spirits enormously, and, from the open, happy expression on Harry's face, she had an inkling that he felt the same.

They made their way to King's Cross with a guard composed of Order members: Tonks was walking with the group, oblivious to Hermione's lingering resentment, and Moody brought up the rear as he pushed a trolley piled high with luggage, porter's cap pulled over his magical eye. Even Sirius was there (unwisely, Hermione considered), bounding up and down the platform excitedly in his Animagus form.

Aboard the Hogwarts Express, she and Ron had to part ways with Harry and Ginny since they were due in the Prefects carriage for their first official meeting. Ron was looking glum at the prospect.

"Hope this won't take long," he sulked.

"Well, the Head Girl and Boy are going to give us all instructions and then we have to patrol, so I expect it will take a good while," she responded, already annoyed.

Ron sighed with the air of someone greatly put-upon. "But what if we miss the lunch trolley? I want a pumpkin pastry."

"Honestly, do you ever think about anything besides food? You were happy enough to be made Prefect when your mother bought you that new broom, but the minute you have to do an ounce of real work, you start complaining! Well let me tell you something right now, Ronald Weasley! I'm not going to be doing your rounds for you, and I am NOT going to let you copy off of me this year!"

"I..I.." Ron sputtered, "Blimey, Hermione, all I said was that I wanted a pumpkin pastry! You're just as bad as Harry, biting my head off over nothing _all of the bloody time_! Well, I've had it up to _here_ with your-"

They were already at the door of the prefect's carriage, so Hermione just shot him a dirty look in reply. Walking in, she spotted a vacancy between Ernie and Hannah (the Hufflepuff prefects) and took it, leaving Ron the last empty seat next to Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy. Realizing the fate that awaited him, he shot her a pleading look, but she ignored him.

"Had a good holiday, Weasel?" Malfoy drawled.

"What's it to you, ferret-face?" Ron demanded, arms crossed defensively across his chest.

"Oh I dunno... just thought it might have been a bit rough since your dad is on such thin ice at the Ministry and your best mate turned out to be the crackpot we always knew he was."

Pansy sniggered. Encouraged, Malfoy continued in a mock-terrified voice: "Noo...please, don't let the Dementors get me...nooooo…"

"Shut your stupid mouth, Malfoy!" Hermione snarled at him, motioning to take out her wand.

"Or what, you dirty little Mudblood?"

But Hermione's retort was cut short as the door opened and the Head Boy and Girl walked in.

Ron's fears had been unfounded, as it turned out; they received brief instructions and a quarter-hour later, they were sent off with their patrol schedules.

Grabbing her trunk and a rather grumpy Crookshanks, Hermione was about to go and find a compartment, when a voice called to her.

"Hey! Hermione Granger, right?"

"Oh, hello Cho." She could have reminded the other girl that they'd already met a couple of times last year, but didn't see a point to it.

But Cho seemed to be thinking along the same lines, and blushed faintly. "Oh, sorry, um...good summer?"

"Fine, thanks. Yours?" Hermione couldn't for the life of her figure out what this girl wanted, having never shown the slightest interest in speaking to her before. Cho Chang was not only one of the prettiest girls at Hogwarts, but also one of the smartest. Just being in her presence made Hermione feel wrong-footed.

"Oh, you know, it was...well, it could've been better…" she trailed off pathetically, and Hermione felt a pang of pity as she suddenly remembered that the late Cedric Diggory had been Cho's boyfriend.

"Cho... I'm really sorry. He was … a great person." Hermione said, briefly putting her hand on Cho's shoulder.

Looking down as though trying to conceal incipient tears, the Ravenclaw whispered: "Yes, he was." Gathering herself, she continued. "Anyway, I just wanted to ask if you'd seen Harry around? I wanted to say Hi."

 _Of course_ , thought Hermione with a touch of bitterness, _she only talked to me to ask about Harry_. "Oh, I think they got a compartment in the last carriage, but I'm not sure."

"Thanks!" Cho said, smiling. And just like that, she was gone.

"Yeah, see you…" Hermione muttered at her retreating back, and suddenly found herself thinking that the way Cho looked in jeans was a miracle.

 _NO!_ _We're not going down_ that _path again, Hermione!_ she told herself mercilessly, heading off to find Ron and the others.

* * *

Week 1 of what Hermione would later refer to as Umbridge's Reign of Terror was, by common consensus, the worst first week of term ever. Harry was constantly on edge, Ron seemed determined to argue with her at every possible opportunity, Ginny vacillated between sulking and sarcasm, the twins were carrying on illicit experiments on the first-years, and everyone else in Gryffindor couldn't stop gossiping about Voldemort's supposed return.

Perhaps the worst of the lot were here roommates, Lavender and Parvati. While Hermione typically found their inane, non-stop chatter rather soothing (or had she simply gotten used to it after four years?), their new habit of performing dramatic readings to each other from the Daily Prophet was driving her absolutely mad.

That was why, on their first Saturday back, she found herself breaking into Hagrid's abandoned cabin, where she was certain no one would ever think to look for her. After a few well-placed Scourgifys, the place was nearly habitable and Hermione settled in for a marathon research session.

The first thing she pulled out of her bag was the Prophet- the issue from a few days prior that reported that Sturgis Podmore had been sentenced to six months in Azkaban for trying to break into a door at the Ministry. When she'd seen it first, something had tickled at her memory, like a connection her brain wanted to make, but couldn't. Now, as she reread the article and examined the tiny photo, the missing link finally snapped into place.

She hadn't noticed before, but Podmore was standing handcuffed in front of the Department of Mysteries. What's more, she was sure that she'd seen him that day in the lift….right before Lucius Malfoy got on. The wizard named Yaxley had asked Malfoy if 'it was done'...and Malfoy had said that someone would be useful...Malfoy wanted something in the Department of Mysteries...

Slowly, realization dawned. Malfoy had compelled Podmore to break into the Ministry, in order to get his hands on whatever he wanted to steal and discredit the Order, in one fell swoop. In fact, the situation bore certain parallels with Malfoy's attempts to tarnish Arthur Weasley's reputation by slipping a cursed diary to his eleven-year-old daughter. She was certain her guess was true because that was exactly what she would have done if she were a sociopathic pureblood-supremacist working for Satan himself. As far as evil plots went, it was quite brilliant, Hermione thought begrudgingly - and she wasn't too Gryffindor to admit it.

Fortunately, it seemed as though Podmore had been caught before actually completing his assignment...which, she realized, only meant that Malfoy would try again.

Hermione spared a moment to wonder at how uncommonly lucky she had been to avoid getting caught that day - well, she had been caught, but not reported - and turned towards the fruits of that endeavor: the copied research.

Most of it, as she had already noticed, was concerned with stabilizing the enchantments placed on Time-Turners to prevent the disintegration of either the user or the timeline, especially in cases where time had been reversed more than six hours. Well, to say that time had been reversed was incorrect, Hermione though; in fact, it was only the traveller who was reversed, detached from the materiality of the physical and thrown into the chaos of timeless space.

The effects of this process on the human body were so poorly understood that it was strictly forbidden to travel back in time more than 24 hours. Evidently, the last witch who had attempted it (in 1972) had suffered a most painful demise and no one had dared try it since. The 24-hour Time Turner Hermione had stolen was one of only two in existence, and neither had ever been used for anything but theoretical study, she read.

Well, until now, Hermione thought, remembering her already-numerous sojourns in time over the past couple of weeks, though none had lasted even half a day. The first few times had been terrible; her head had felt as though it would explode from internal pressure and she had vomited uncontrollably. But those symptoms seemed to be getting better with each successive trip, so it stood to reason that she could eventually work her way up to a full day without killing herself.

That had to have been the mistake of the other witch, she reasoned. Going too far, too fast. That, in itself, was quite typical of the irrational arrogance she frequently found in wizards. Instead of starting with logic and planning, they jumped into things, blindly trusting that their magic would see them through. Her friend Ron was a quintessential example.

But Hermione had never had that luxury. Nothing ever came easy to her. She had had to struggle for every single small accomplishment, and had learned to rely not on her power or even her cleverness, but on her discipline and her iron-willed determination.

Beside the physical effects of travelling too far back, the other major obstacle seemed to be something called the Self-Consistency Threshold. It was an unspecified point beyond which the timeline became so volatile that it could be damaged irreversibly- or even destroyed. It was the point beyond which paradoxes became possible.

Only two people were ever known to have crossed it: Eloise Mintumble and her daughter, whom she had read about in the library of Grimmauld Place. Hermione knew that, in order to accomplish what she'd set out to do, she would have to cross the Threshold. And, hopefully, survive.

She had managed to piece together something of the mechanics of Time Turners: the little hourglasses held enchanted sand - sand that had been created at the beginning of time. Over the centuries, most of the grains had scattered in the wind, and rubbed so small that now they resided in every living thing, moving the world in synchrony. The witches and wizards of antiquity had collected a few of these precious grains and discovered a way to manipulate their flow. A complex system of Arithmantic calculations determined the length of time one could travel with each time-turner. Pulling out a piece of parchment, Hermione began to scribble down some calculations; if her hunch was correct, and she rather suspected that it was, even a single grain contained in itself the entire legacy of the world, so it alone should allow her to travel back as much as necessary. Now she just had to find out the correct figures….

A sudden pop disrupted her concentration, and Hermione, looking up, was surprised to see Dobby the house elf standing in the middle of Hagrid's cabin, supporting another elf who seemed to be on the verge of slumping to the ground.

"Oh...Miss Hermione!" Dobby squealed, giving her a wide, toothy smile.

"Dobby? and... is that Winky? What are you doing here?" Surreptitiously, she shuffled aside the papers on the table.

"Well, you see...um…" Dobby began, looking down at the other elf, who was now fully prostrate and had begun humming loudly to herself.

"Is she...drunk?" Hermione asked with concern.

Dobby hung his head. "Last year,Winky's family gave her clothes, and she's been very unhappy, Miss Hermione. Dobby tries to tell her it's a wonderful thing to be free, but Winky just cries and cries..."

"Oh, that's terrible!" Hermione said sadly, wondering how someone could miss being enslaved to the maniac Barty Crouch Jr. so much. "I'm sure she'll realize one day how fortunate she is."

"Dobby hopes so too! Dobby brings Winky here sometimes to sleep, when she's had too many Butterbeers."

Meanwhile, Winky sang: "...In times o' old, when I 's new," she hiccupped loudly, then continued, "and H'warts barely started, the founders…of our noble school..."

"Well, I won't say anything, Dobby, I promise. Maybe…" Hermione began, hopefully,"maybe a hat will make her feel better?" With that, she reached into her satchel and pulled out one of her misshapen wooly creations. "Oh wait a minute thats a sock…."she tossed it aside and pulled out another "hmmm, this one too...oh here's a nice one! Look, red and gold, Gryffindor colours!"

She held it out to Winky, but the small elf looked at it with a mixture of revulsion and horror.

"Oh, I'll take it for her! Dobby loves hats!" he exclaimed, snatching it out of Hermione's outstretched hand.

Watching the elf try to fit the hat over his enormous ears, Hermione recalled her earlier musings about the Podmore case, and decided to take advantage of an opportunity to gather information. "Dobby...I'm wondering if you could help me with something," she began, tentative.

"Anything for a friend of Harry Potter!" He beamed at her once more.

"Well...you used to work for Lucius Malfoy, right?"

A dark look came over the elf's usually jovial features, and he nodded sharply.

"I was wondering, that is, I wanted to know...if you could tell me about him?"

"About him?" Dobby asked, evidently confused.

"Yes. About the way he thinks."

Dobby pondered for a long moment."Oh, well he's a Slytherin, isn't he? Master Malfoy always looks out for himself."

Hermione nodded, encouragingly. "Go on..."


	5. Ron's Big Day

"Expelliarmus!" Hermione shouted, sending a jet of light at her opponent. A second later, she heard the satisfying clatter of a wand hitting the ground.

"Hey, that's not fair! You got me when I wasn't looking!" Ron shot back angrily.

"Oh I'm sorry Ron, you're right. 'Cause You-Know-Who is totally going to wait until you're paying attention to hex you!"

"Will you two cut it out already?" Harry, who had come up to watch their practice, glared at them. Then, in an undertone: "Good job, Hermione."

She gave him a small grin, trying - and failing utterly - not to look self-satisfied. Their secret Defence group was barely into its third meeting, and Hermione already felt that she was improving greatly, as were many of the others. Neville had already managed to cast the Impediment jinx without knocking himself off his feet, and Ginny had gotten so good that people were afraid to partner with her.

The success of Dumbledore's Army was even sweeter because it distracted her from the complete lack of progress in her other project. Her calculations were going nowhere, she frequently found herself feeling nauseous and somehow _off_ , and, worst of all, strange things had begun to happen again. The other day, she had been repotting Shrivelfig seedlings in Herbology and, feeling a strange tingling in her fingers, looked down to see that her hands seemed to be fading into nonexistence. It had lasted for all of ten seconds, as Hermione stood there frozen in horror, and then it simply stopped. She didn't sleep a wink that night, or the night after.

"...next Tuesday at the same time, alright?" Harry was saying, "You all did a great job today, you should be proud of yourselves."

 _He's turning out to be a good leader_ , Hermione thought as she watched people filter out of the room. _If things continue to go this well, we may actually have a chance in this war._

She left as well, but instead of returning to Gryffindor tower with the others, she spent a dull thirty minutes doing rounds of the first floor classrooms. Deciding that she'd put in a decent effort, Hermione made her way back to the Room of Requirement, having seen some interesting books in there during practice and hoping that, if she asked it nicely, the room might favor her with some new materials about time-travel.

But the room had other plans for her tonight, it seemed. Creeping down the seventh floor hallway, she was surprised to see that the black door was visible, meaning that someone was inside. Prying the door open as carefully as she could, Hermione peered inside and saw…

Cho Chang, of all people, who seemed to be doing some sort of very complex dance. More bizarre still, her hands were alight with blue flames, which made beautiful patterns as she moved. Every now and then she would raise her arms in a slow arc and send the flames shooting forth in a powerful surge.

Hermione was entranced, and her legs, as though of their own volition, carried her forward into the room. She must have stood there staring for nearly a minute, no doubt wearing an idiotic expression, before the other witch noticed her.

"Oh! Merlin," Cho clasped a hand to her chest, "Hermione, you scared me! I thought it might have been Umbridge!"

"Well I guess we're both lucky it wasn't."

Cho smiled a bit, but otherwise said nothing, clearly expecting the notoriously scrupulous Gryffindor to launch into one of her lectures.

"Sorry to barge in on you, I-um...I was just wondering what you were doing?" .

"Oh, you saw that, huh?" Cho said, nervously. "Well, to be honest, it's something I'm not really supposed to be doing...Listen, I know you're a Prefect and all, but, could you please just keep this to yourself?" She'd come closer, a pleading look on her face. She was so close that Hermione could smell her shampoo.

 _You're such a sucker_ , Hermione thought, with a flicker of disgust. "I'm not going say anything, Cho. We really need this room for the D.A. and if I file a report, Umbridge might find out about it." The Gryffindor didn't have to tell the other witch that she, herself, had been about to break the rules to read in here.

"Oh. I didn't even think about that!" Cho exclaimed, paling.

"I'm really curious though, what you were doing...was it a dance? Or a spell?"

"Well... it's sort of both. It's a really old fighting form where you channel your magical energy through movement, its...kind of like wandless magic," Cho explained.

"It's amazing," Hermione replied breathlessly,"I've never seen anything like it!"

"Thanks," the Ravenclaw said, clearly pleased at the compliment."My grandmother taught me when I was young - she was considered one of the best in the world! She's gone now, but I still practice it whenever I can. It helps me concentrate, you know."

Hermione tilted her head thoughtfully. "But how come you said you're not supposed to be doing it? Because it's past curfew?"

Cho flushed."Well, no... I mean that too, but mainly because…well, it's kind of _illegal_."

"Illegal?"

"Yes. In this country, at least. The British banned it back in the 19th century, when a lot of Chinese wizards were trying to come here. They said it was really dangerous dark magic."

"And...is it?"

"Of course not," Cho said with irritation, "no more than your typical wand-waving, but people fear what they don't understand, right? They put my Grandmother in Azkaban for it, the idiots. When she was 86."

"That's terrible!" Hermione said sympathetically, thinking of Hagrid and Sirius, and all the rest who had been imprisoned unjustly. "Although this is the same Ministry that thinks all Muggles are half-witted disease-carriers, so I'm not surprised. "

Cho snorted at that, and they shared a look of commiseration. But it only lasted a moment before the awkwardness of the situation reasserted itself.

"To be honest, I was coming here to read," Hermione blurted to fill the silence, and instantly felt foolish.

"Well that makes sense, I don't like reading in my common room either. And my dorm-mates don't exactly live up to the Ravenclaw name, you know. It's hard to concentrate when they're giggling like mad over some stupid gossip all the time."

"I know how that feels like, Lavender and Parvati are awful!"

They spent a few minutes trading stories, and Hermione soon found herself wishing for a couple of armchairs and a nice of cup of tea...and as soon as she had thought of it, the room obliged.

If Cho found this strange, however, she didn't mention it. Instead she curled up in one of the chairs and grabbed a Ginger Newt from the tin which had materialized on the table. Hermione watched her face, lovely by the light of the fire, as they sat in silence.

"Everyone thinks I've lost it, you know," Cho said, not looking at her.

"Well...I don't think that."

"People don't understand what it's like though. When someone you love dies, it's like a part of you dies too…" she trailed off, and Hermione could see her eyes mist over. She wondered if Cho, despite her many hangers-on, really had anyone to talk to.

"Cedric-" Hermione began, but the other witch cut her off.

"It's not just Cedric. My dad died last spring. Potions accident."

Hermione pitied her more then, if that was even possible. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," Cho replied, bitterly."He was a complete arsehole. Always making my mum cry. He made really bad investments, too. We nearly lost our house."

The look on Cho's face was hard as she stared into the flames, and Hermione stayed quiet.

"I didn't like him very much, to be honest. But... it still hurts. A lot."

When it seemed like Cho was really on the verge of tears, Hermione asked the first thing that came to mind: "How's your mother taking it?"

"Not well. She really loved him, for some reason, and now she has to work all the time. And my sister's had to put off her apprenticeship to get a job, and she thinks I'm not helping out enough. She doesn't say anything, but I know she resents me."

Hermione felt a pang of recognition at that, thinking of her own father.

"And I can't even sleep anymore, all I dream about is Cedric dying, over and over and over...I think I'm going mad… that's why I come here sometimes, to clear my head," Cho continued. Then, seeming to recollect herself, she looked at Hermione, apologetic. "Sorry to dump all of this on you, I know you probably didn't expect to listen to me complain all night."

"I don't mind," Hermione replied, thinking how strangely soothing it was to sit there in the Ravenclaw's mournful presence; she felt more at ease in that moment than she had felt all term.

That saying about misery loving company must have been true, after all.

A sudden fierce longing to tell someone what happened that summer - to share her terrible secret with just one other living soul - seized her, and without considering, she burst out: "Can I... tell you something?"

"Of course," Cho looked at her intently, and her gaze was so clear and guileless that Hermione couldn't bear the weight of it.

"Umm…" _Quick! Think of something, anything!_ "Um… Harry fancies you."

A moment of stunned silence passed as Cho tried to absorb this piece of information and Hermione berated herself for the thoughtless betrayal.

"I...I really shouldn't have told you that…" _You're just as bad as Ron, you idiot._

"Well, at least that explains why he always acts so odd…"

"Promise you won't say anything-"

"Oh no, I would never. To be honest, I actually think he's really... well, nice. And cute." Cho giggled. Despite the fading firelight, Hermione could see a faint blush stain the Ravenclaw's cheeks.

 _Of course you do_ , Hermione thought bitterly.

* * *

Of all the stupid decisions he had made in his admittedly short life, this was certainly the most stupid, Ron Weasley though. Maybe he'd let the entire Prefect thing get to his head, developing some grandiose notions about his own skills. Or, perhaps the twins' persistent mockery had pushed him to try and prove them wrong. Now, as his sweating hands gripped the broom handle and his meager breakfast threatened to come back up, he fervently prayed to all the spirits, fairies, ghosts, and specters who were listening for a miracle. Or a painless death.

Anything to spare himself the humiliation of letting in goal after goal to the relentless soundtrack of "Weasley is Our King."

The score was 100-10. For the first time in recent memory, Slytherin was positively _slaughtering_ Gryffindor. He would surely go down in history as the greatest embarrassment to his house that ever lived.

"-Spinnet's got the Quaffle, she's heading for the Slytherin goal- " Lee Jordan's running commentary echoed through the stadium, "and …ohh, that's a near miss with the bludger for new Beater Goyle - Spinnet reverse-passes to Katie Bell-"

Ron watched Katie zooming toward the green and silver flags across the field, followed closely by the Slytherin captain. He hoped that things would finally turn around.

"Bell's got the Quaffle - she's getting close, let's see what Bletchley, the Slytherin Keeper can do! … And - ouch! Warrington nearly knocks Spinnet off her broom! And Johnson's going to help her - watch out girls - Warrington's got the Quaffle, he passes to Montague, and it looks like Montague has a clear shot, the Gryffindor side of the pitch is unprotected...where are the Weasley twins? Let's hope the new Keeper shapes up soon, Gryffindor can't afford another-"

As Montague sped towards him, a great collective yell rose from the enemy stands:"Weasley is our king! Weasley cannot save a thing…"

Ron tried to concentrate on his breathing, on the wild hammering of his heart... _anything_ , anything but that awful song. But that deafening shouting drowned it all out, echoing in his head over and over: "He cannot block a single ring, That's why Slytherins all sing: WEASLEY IS OUR KING."

Montague was close now. So close that Ron could see every spot on his ugly, troll-like face.

 _Come on Ron_ , he told himself, _you need to get this. Harry will hate you if you don't. Fred and George will never let you hear the end of it. You'll never get a date, like EVER._

Montague circled up to the goalpost… and Angelina was flying towards them with an insane speed, her face frozen in fury and concentration… but she could never make it…

Ron knew what was coming, he could feel it in the way his stomach flipped as the Quaffle zoomed towards the goal.

He stretched out ….so close, dammit, so close...and he could just barely get his hands on it…

But the ball slipped through his fingers. Fortunately, he didn't have time to curse himself as the sick sinking feeling of gravity grabbed hold of him, and he plummeted.

Everything went black.

He didn't know how much time had passed before he woke up, but the room was dark.

 _Where am I?_ Ron wondered. _And what the hell happened?_

On instinct, he tried to sit up and look around, but immediately regretted it as a sharp pain shot down his spine.

"Oh Ron, you shouldn't do that!" it was Hermione's voice, and she sounded worried. "Harry help me!" Hands grasped his shoulders and painstakingly pulled him into a seated position.

Now, he saw that he was in the hospital wing, with a very glum-looking Harry and panicked Hermione at his bedside.

"What...what happened?" He asked, trying to put the scattered pieces together: he remembered the game, "Weasley is Our King", Montague…

"You don't remember?" Harry asked, deadpan. His mouth was pressed into a thin line that gave him an uncanny resemblance to Professor McGonagall.

"Let's just say you're a contender for the Worst Keeper of the Year Award." Gingerly turning his head to the right, he noticed his sister, standing there with her arms crossed. She was grinning at him, as though trying to make light of a bad situation. "But don't worry, Fred and George are trying to convince everyone that the Slytherins put the _Confundus_ on you."

Ron groaned, as the memories came flooding back. "Please someone put me out of my misery…" he whined pathetically.

"Hermione! You know spells!" He shot her a pleading look. "Can you make me forget this ever happened? I don't think I can live with the shame…"

"No, Ron! You know I can't, it's very dangerous!"

He fully intended to keep begging her, but a thought occurred to him then, and he looked at Harry, hopeful.

"Hey! Harry, you must have caught the Snitch, right? That means we could have won!"

"Yeah, I caught it all right," Harry replied miserably. "But only because Malfoy was about to get his slimy hands on it. We lost 110 to 120."

"That's nothing: only ten points!" Hermione chimed in.

"Doesn't matter," Ron responded, utterly wretched. "I am NEVER going to be able to live this down. It's all because of that stupid song!"

Harry gave a heaving sigh and stood.

"I have to go. Detention."

And with that terse pronouncement, he stalked out of the hospital wing with all the good grace of a goblin who'd lost his Galleons.

"Don't mind him, Ron," Ginny said, consolingly. "He's mad at himself for not catching the snitch sooner."

Hermione's head jerked up at that statement, and she stared at Ginny thoughtfully. Soon, the redhead witch excused herself too, promising to return with the twins after dinner, a prospect that Ron wasn't really looking forward to.

"Maybe they'll bring those Skiving Snackbox things," he told Hermione sadly. "Then I could stay in here forever."

But Hermione was looking at him with that strange, burning look in her eyes that she got sometimes when she'd just figured out a particularly difficult Arithmancy problem or finished a complicated Potion.

"There may be another way."

She stood up and paced to the window, then back to the bed, and her gaze seemed to flit from object to object as though rushing to keep up with her thoughts.

"Just go to sleep. I'm going to take care of it," she declared cryptically, and hurried out of the Infirmary, leaving Ron entirely on his own.

 _That girl's finally cracked_ , he thought. _Must be all those crazy revision schedules._

He fully intended to spend the rest of the day planning how he was going to run away to Egypt, change his name, and live out the rest of his days in lonely - but mercifully, anonymous - solitude, but the sight of a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans on his bedside table quickly drew his attention. He chose a yellow specked one.

"Hmm… popcorn?" Popping it in his mouth, his expression turned from pleased, to thoughtful, to nauseous.

"Nope," He choked out. "'S belly- button lint. Should've known."

Deciding that it just wasn't his lucky day, Ron pulled the covers to his chin and turned towards the wall.

He dreamt that he was back at the World Cup with his family, except... he wasn't a spectator, he was playing Keeper for Ireland! And instead of Quaffles and Bludgers, they seemed to be playing with giant pork chops and flying meat pies. And an ear-splitting roar was rising from the stands, except it wasn't "Weasley is Our King", no, it was a real roar, since everyone seemed to be wearing enormous lion-headed hats…

Ron woke with a start. _Well that's a new one_ , he thought, remembering the odd dream. Groggy, he rubbed at his eyes and tried to sit up, pleasantly surprised that the shooting pains were gone.

"Ready for the game, mate?" someone was saying, and looking up, Ron saw Seamus's grinning face peering through the curtains. _Wait, curtains? There aren't curtains in the hospital wing…._

That's when he recognized where he was. In bed. His bed, to be specific, in Gryffindor tower. What the hell was going on here?

"What are you talking about?" Ron asked, his face a slack-jawed mask of confusion.

"Uh, Quidditch. You know, with the flying," Seamus flapped his arms about comically. "Against Slytherin?"

"Wait…" Ron's eyes bulged. "What the - t-that's _today_?" _I must still be dreaming._

Seamus shook his head in disbelief. "Oi, Harry! Come over here," he called.

A moment later, Harry's disheveled head poked through the curtain next to Seamus.

"What's up?"

"Harry!" Ron exclaimed."You've got to tell me what's going on! I mean… we already played Slytherin, and we lost, because I couldn't block any flying hams - I mean Quaffles - I mean -"

"It was just a dream." Harry said, bracingly. Grabbing Ron by the arm, he pulled him out from the tangle of covers. "Come on, let's get you some breakfast."

He knew that Ron wouldn't turn down breakfast even if the world was ending.

"Alright," Ron assented, still confused. But...wasn't yesterday… today? Hadn't his dreadful playing cost them the game? Or had it really been a dream after all? Even as he pulled on his jeans, he could feel the memories begin to fade, as though they weren't quite real.

"It's just pre-game anxiety," Harry was saying on the way down the stairs, "but you get used to it eventually, don't worry." But that bizarre out-of-place feeling didn't go away, although it got easier to ignore as the minutes wore on.

"How're you feeling?" his sister, who had picked a seat across the table, asked with concern.

"He's just nervous," Harry broke in.

"Well, that's a good sign, I never feel you perform as well in exams if you're not a bit nervous," Hermione said cheerily, drawing Ron's gaze.

Was it just his imagination, or was she smiling at him a bit too stiffly? _Could it be? Did she…?_ Ron wondered, but just as soon as the thought came to his head, it flittered away and he turned towards his now-soggy cereal.

Of course it had all been a dream: his mind was merely taunting him with the worst outcome he could imagine. And with good reason too, Ron thought miserably as he trailed behind Harry on the way to the Quidditch pitch. There was no chance in hell that Gryffindor would win with his abysmal Keeping abilities - he might as well start getting used to it.

Malfoy was standing near the changing rooms with his cronies as though he had been waiting for them. Ron tried to ignore the lot, but couldn't help noticing that both Crabbe and Goyle were making ominous slashing motions at their throats, wearing moronic twin grins.

"Hope Mummy's already planned your funeral, Weasel," Malfoy stage-whispered out of the side of his mouth. "'Cause if the Bludgers don't kill you, the embarrassment will."

He snickered at his own barb and stalked off to the Slytherin side, Crabbe and Goyle following behind like a pair of overgrown (and very ugly) puppies.

The game, mercifully, was rather short since Harry managed to catch the Snitch in record time. Ron alighted from his broom to the deafening cheering coming from the Gryffindor stands - which had entirely drowned out the chant of "Weasley is Our King" from the green-and-silver section - and thought gratefully that no one would remember his poor performance because they'd scraped a win, after all.

Fred touched down beside him and thumped him on the back of the head.

"Ouch! What was that for?" Ron demanded indignantly.

"Besmirching the good family name," George, who now stood beside his brother, explained.

"You better shape up, little bro, or we're going to have to start telling people you were adopted," Fred added.

"Have you _seen_ us?" Ron replied, voice laced with sarcasm. "Nobody would believe you."

But the banter was cut short as an incipient scuffle drew their attention: Malfoy was goading Harry, who looked about ready to tear the blond boy's head off.

It happened in a matter of seconds: the twins, realizing that Malfoy was mocking their parents, jumped into the fray along with Harry, pummeling the Slytherin Chaser with their fists. Madame Hooch and the Gryffindor Head swept down upon the scene instantaneously, and while the angry set of McGonagall's jaw frightened Ron, it was the worry in her eyes that made his blood run cold. With a sinking feeling in his gut as though he knew exactly what she was thinking, Ron looked into the stands… and met the icy, triumphant glare of Dolores Umbridge.


	6. The Self-Consistency Threshold

When Ron didn't show up after the game, Hermione nearly lost her wits with panic.

 _He's dead_ , kept running over and over in her head, like some sort of morbid mantra. _I've killed him._ And then an ever worse thought popped into her head, and she gasped, drawing the stares of a couple of first years huddled in the corner.

 _Maybe...maybe, he's been...unborn…_

The idea was too ghastly to even consider.

Fortunately, at the precise moment she was about to burst into terrified sobs, the portrait swung open and a dishevelled, snow-covered Ron came in, looking more miserable than she could ever remember seeing him. When he told them that he'd been out for a walk, Hermione wanted to smack him, although whether from irritation or relief, she could not say.

"McGonagall took me to her office, was just about to give me detention-" Harry was saying.

"Let me guess," Ron interrupted. "Umbridge showed up."

Harry nodded morosely, and continued. "She's gone and granted herself the right to assign all the punishments at Hogwarts. And she decided that, in this case, Fred, George and I are to be banned from playing Quidditch. For life."

"NO!" Ron gasped, face frozen in horrified disbelief. "But...but that means…"

"We can kiss the Quidditch cup goodbye," Harry finished. "Unless Angelina can conjure up a couple of Beaters and a Seeker from somewhere."

While the boys consoled themselves trying to top each other's insults for the Hogwarts High Inquisitor, Hermione stared into the dying fire, thoughts rushing at breakneck speed.

Yesterday...that is, today...realization had dawned so sudden, as she sat at Ron's bedside in the hospital wing, that she couldn't believe it had taken her _months_ to get there. Some random footnote in Eternal Enigma: Theory of Time Travel had said that _a single moment, while discrete within itself, in fact subsumes every alternative._ There were lynchpin events, so to speak, around which others were clustered, and in the very near past, those events were absolutes - immutable - but if you went far back enough... everything became uncertain. It was a question of understanding the chain of events and isolating the single moment when the potential of another outcome became possible. According to the pilfered Ministry notes, the process of finding that moment required an impossibly complex Numerological Model, but Hermione had thrown caution to the wind for once, and chosen on instinct.

The Time-Turner had been used to its full capacity: a full 24 hours. After checking and re-checking her notes and trying to talk herself out of what she was doing for the hundredth time, Hermione had settled on hiding beneath the stands and bewitching the Snitch so that Harry could have an easier time getting ahold of it. Not a very glamourous or elaborate plan, to be sure, but certainly effective. They won the game.

And afterwards? She had suspected that redirecting the timeline could introduce an element of chaos, and chaos seemed to love taking on the form of Delores bloody Umbridge. Was it indirectly her fault that Harry and the twins had been ousted from the team, and that their chances of winning another game were smaller that Crabbe and Goyle's combined IQ? Ruthlessly pushing down a pang of guilt, Hermione rose and paced to the window. She stood there a long moment, absently rubbing at the scar on her wrist.

 _Harry and Ron would understand_ , she thought, _if they knew how much I need this._

She could stop now, of course, but she knew that she wouldn't. Besides, it was already done. She had crossed the Self-Consistency Threshold. She had altered the timeline.

* * *

Cho Chang kept popping up everywhere Hermione was trying to be. Like the Room of Requirement. And the Library. And the First-Floor Girl's Lavatory.

The latter annoyed her most because Myrtle's bathroom had become something of a private sanctuary for the Gryffindor witch since her second year. She had even managed to get on nearly-civil terms with the resident ghost, with whom she'd bonded over a shared love of Muggle science fiction. But Myrtle was nowhere to be seen today: only the drenched floor tiles and a distant echo of sobbing remained as evidence of her dour mood.

Locking herself in the first stall, Hermione proceeded to down an unsavory cocktail of Calming Draught, Anti-Dizziness Potion, Draught of Peace, and a Wit-Sharpening Potion for good measure. _Don't vomit,_ she told herself sternly. _You brought this on yourself._

She had failed to anticipate that her strange time-travel-related malady would worsen after the Gryffindor-Slytherin Game. But, of course, it had: as she walked through the Transfiguration courtyard this morning, she had noticed Hogwarts...shifting. Suddenly, instead of proud stone wall, there was only rubble before her, black smoke curled ominously from the turrets, and the enormous oak doors lay in splinters… and the sound of screaming was ringing in her ears.

And, just like the other inexplicable occurrences of the past few months, the vision was gone in the blink of an eye.

 _Maybe I'm just going insane_ , Hermione though. But before she could evaluate the merits of this idea, a soft sniffle from the next cubicle drew her attention. Hardly sparing a thought for the perhaps-disturbing fact that she could recognize the intonation of that sniffle, Hermione said:

"Hey Cho. You OK?"

There was a long pause. Hermione could just picture the Ravenclaw girl sitting there, no doubt wearing a mortified look.

"Umm...hey Hermione."

Hermione sighed. "I wish you weren't so sad." Adding mentally: _You're too pretty to be crying all the time_.

"It's nice of you to check on me."

Their doors opened at the same moment, and just when it seemed to Hermione that they would stand there in silent awkwardness forever, Cho rushed forward and wrapped her arms around Hermione's neck.

"T-thanks," she hiccoughed.

"For what?" Hermione asked, stunned. She could feel her neck grow wet with Cho's tears, but the sensation was not altogether unpleasant.

"For being a friend." Cho pulled away, smiling briefly, then continued: "Hey, did you mean it the other day when you said you wanted me to teach you?"

"Oh- oh yes."

"OK, can you meet me on top of the Astronomy Tower at 10? We can't risk going to the R.o.R again. You're right: if Umbridge finds us, the D.A. is finished."

"Alright," Hermione replied, still trying to comprehend what exactly she had just agreed to, but Cho, as was her habit, had already rushed away with a hasty "See you!"

At 9:45 that night, a despondent Hermione stood in front of the mirror in her dorm, trying to run a comb through her unruly mane, which stubbornly refused to cooperate. Ginny, who was curled up on the floor amidst a pile of Transfiguration notes, was sneaking surreptitious glances in her direction.

"No use," Hermione whined, and tossed the comb onto her dresser, where it knocked over a plate of cold breakfast rolls.

Ginny chortled. "Hot date?"

Hermione went pale. "W-why would you say that?" she asked, trying, and failing, not to sound like a guilty first-year.

"Oh, you know, it's not everyday I see you try to fix your hair."

"Maybe I just want to look presentable for a change, huh? Did that ever occur to you?" the older witch demanded.

"It did. But then you asked me to lend you a clean jumper. Which you never do."

Hermione crossed her arms and pinned Ginny with her best 'Prefect' look. "It's not a date."

"How do you know?"

"I just do, OK?"

"Well, where are you meeting?"

"The Astronomy Tower."

"Hmm, and what time?"

"Ten."

Ginny grinned with satisfaction. "It's a date" she declared.

"Do you really think so?" Hermione blurted, and was immediately embarrassed by the hopefulness in her tone.

But her redheaded friend just laughed at her and went back to reading. Later, Hermione would wonder why Ginny hadn't mined for details.

That first meeting with Cho had been nearly two weeks ago, and since then, they'd met twice more in different abandoned corners of the castle.

"You will find that an orderly and disciplined mind is the key," Cho had told her. "That's why many Ravenclaws are able to grasp it so easily, and I think you will too. At the beginning, it's all about self-control: keeping your mind and body absolutely still and just feeling the source of your magic."

"The source of my magic?" Hermione asked, bewildered.

"Yes, the place your magic lives in your body. It's different for everyone. Mine always seems to be here," she explained, pointing at the spot below her clavicle. "Like I said, you need to really focus to feel it. Get rid of all distraction. My grandmother used to say that magical energy is the only thing that is eternal; it merely finds a temporary home in us, and all other living things. Try to feel that."

If Hermione had to guess what Ginny, Lavender, and Parvati thought she was doing on her late-night jaunts, she wouldn't have put meditation on top of that list. But meditate is indeed what they did. They would sit for hours in silence looking out over the Hogwarts grounds, Cho utterly serene and Hermione struggling to tame her roiling thoughts.

"You're having a hard time with this, aren't you?" Cho pointed out.

Hermione looked at her, face grim with frustration. "I don't understand why, I don't usually have trouble concentrating."

The Ravenclaw tilted her head to the side, thoughtful."Well, if I was trying to learn at at a time like this I don't think I'd get it either."

Hermione's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"Well, everybody grieves differently, I suppose. I need to cry, because it gives me a release, and you need to bottle it up and channel it into something else."

Hermione blanched. Was she so transparent? Did Cho know something? How?

"You don't have to explain anything, Hermione. But I...I can tell you're miserable."

Hermione found that she couldn't look at the other witch. She wanted to get up and flee the tower, but couldn't bring herself to move at all. Somehow, Cho's hand found its way to her shoulder, and Hermione flinched away, as though burned.

"But if you need to talk about it…"

For an interminable moment, the silence was absolute. But then - Hermione's mouth opened as though of its own accord, and the words poured forth. Like the rupture of a towering dam.

"It was this past summer. I had just come back for holiday…"

….

 _On the third Sunday of her return the Grangers drove out to the country, as usual. Hiked some, ate a spartan picnic out on the hills, shared a quiet tea in the village. It was a weekly ritual that Hermione missed while away at school, but rather dreaded while home during holidays. Her father mostly pottered about in the shrubbery, collecting plant samples for his collection, pressing them between the pages of a book with all the care of a surgeon. Mr. Engel, her parents' partner in their dentistry practice, hovered around him, keeping up a running commentary about the odds of one football team or another._

 _Her mother spent half her time rifling through some true-crime novel and the other half pestering Hermione with questions: What could she really do with a degree from Hogwarts? Why couldn't she maybe just consider applying to a normal University? Didn't she still want to be a doctor? Didn't she want to have the option of joining the Granger family practice? After all, both of her cousins wanted to be dentists. It was a nice, stable living. She could even get married and buy a house down the street from her parents, and her mum could come over on the weekends and bake fresh pie…_

 _For what felt like the hundredth time that afternoon, Hermione gave a long sigh, sounding every bit the teenage girl that she was._

" _Sure mum."_ They just don't understand me at all, _she thought._

 _The conversation was dropped for the moment. But on the car-ride home, they started in on her again._

" _You know your cousin Odette is getting married in November."_

" _Yes mum." Hermione forced out. She always had to ride in the back with old Mr. Engel, who suffered from intense motion sickness. Even now, she could see his sweaty hand clutching the seat and hear his asthmatic wheezing._

" _Wouldn't it be nice to have all the girls together again as bridesmaids? The dresses are just lovely. Lavender!"_

" _I know mum."_

" _She always asks about you, you know. I think it would be just wonderful if you could be there. But we'd have to do something with your hair, darling. "_

 _Hermione rolled her eyes dramatically, but her mother was in the passenger seat and facing forward. Her dad, however, caught sight of it in the rearview, and grinned._

" _There's nothing wrong with my hair."_

" _Hermione, darling, you're almost sixteen. Don't you think it's time you started to make an effort with your appearance?" her mother said, not unkind. And after all, could she be blamed for wanting her daughter to be ordinary in some small way, when she was otherwise so different?_

" _No. I don't." Hermione sulked. "And I have school in November. So there's no way in hell I'm coming."_

" _Don't be rude to your mother, Hermione. You know it would mean a lot to Gran if you were there, she hasn't got much longer-"_

" _And I said I'd introduce you to Mr. Finnicker," her mother continued, "You know he's in the Foreign Office? He might fix you up with an internship, now thats a REAL prospect-"_

" _Or, you know, I could just work for the Ministry. OUR Ministry." Hermione said, feeling a vindictive little thrill._

" _Hermione!" Her father exclaimed, scandalized. Engel didn't know anything about it, nor did anybody else. His daughter's … condition was treated something like a shameful family secret, though neither parent would ever have admitted that._

" _What? It's the truth! Maybe me, Harry and Ron will all be Aurors! "_

" _Don't you say another word, young lady!" A slight hysteria was creeping into her mother's voice._

" _I will!" Hermione was getting heated, resentment which had been building over the past few weeks - years, really - finally boiling over. "I'm tired of you treating me like some kind of… some kind of…"_

" _I'm not a child, and I know what I want!" She finished, rather lamely._

" _Please, just listen to yourself-" her father began, but she wasn't hearing any of it._

" _Stop the car, I want to get out." She snapped, with more conviction than she really felt._

" _But we're in the middle of nowhere!"_

" _Well that's not a problem for ME." She may not have been able to Apparate without a wand or a licence, but her parents didn't know that._

 _Angry now, her father gripped the wheel, knuckles white."We are NOT stopping."_

" _Oh, really? Because you know I can make you!"_

" _Hermione, if you don't stop this RIGHT NOW, I'm going to write to your Headmaster and tell him you won't return this year!" her mother nearly screeched. It was one of the worst threats she could have made. Mr. Engel fidgeted in his seat, looking equal parts confused, uncomfortable, and nauseous._

" _FINE!" Hermione yelled, completely furious. Her magic surged forth, jerking the car wildly. She had only been intending to stop the car, but instead, she had sent them all into a tailspin in the middle of a two-lane highway…_

"Nobody was badly injured - except her. After a week, she died in the hospital. And it was... my fault," Hermione trailed off into a whisper. "I…I wake up every morning and wish it had been me."

"Hermione…I'm so, so sorry…" Cho said, pulling her into a tight hug. "You know you can't blame yourself…."

Trying to offer some comfort, Cho rubbed small circles on her back. At first it was soothing, but quickly began to take on an entirely different dimension. Hermione pulled back, suddenly, embarrassed at the jolt of pleasure the other witch's innocent touch had caused.

"Listen, I'm going to fix it," she told the Ravenclaw.

" _Fix it?_ But how? I don't….I mean, you can't change what happened..."

"Oh that is _exactly_ what I'm going to do. Change the time line."

Cho drew a sharp breath. "That sounds like a really bad idea, Hermione, _please_ promise me you won't-"

"I _have_ to-" Hermione hissed. She had imagined that Cho would understand, considering her own experiences - and maybe even want to help her. Clearly she was mistaken.

"But time magic is _really_ dangerous, you don't even know what could happen!"

"Well, it can't be worse than this!" Hermione snapped, looking away. They sat a moment in uncomfortable silence, and then Cho leapt up, grabbing her bag.

"I - I think I'm going to bed. You should too... maybe you'll come to your senses in the morning," she tossed out coolly.

Cho was already out the door when Hermione realized the stupidity of what she had just done. She rushed to follow the other witch, chasing her down the stairwell and calling: "Cho! You forgot something!"

The Ravenclaw turned around, confused, and in that momentary pause, Hermione took out her wand.

"Obliviate!"

The spell hit Cho in the chest, pushing her backward with its force. She looked around, eyes unfocused. "Hermione? What - where-?"

"It's alright, I was just doing rounds and found you crying up here. You should really get back to your common room, though, it's past midnight," Hermione directed, an odd feeling gnawing at her stomach. If she hadn't been so accustomed to the heady heights of the moral high-ground, she may have recognized the feeling as guilt.

"Yeah….you're right," Cho mumbled distractedly, and, turning, continued her descent.

"Watch out for Umbridge and Filch!" Hermione called after her, rather unnecessarily.

She knew it would be best to return to her own tower - considering all the after-hours wandering of late, odds were good that she'd be caught sometime soon - but Hermione remained immobile, watching the moonlight cast delicate shadows in the grooves of the stonework.

What she wouldn't give for a little bit of peace. She'd never truly appreciated it - living free of constant panic - until recent events had rendered it an impossibility. Even the Calming Draught she kept on hand wasn't doing the job like it used to do even a couple of weeks ago.

Sinking down onto the cold, hard step, Hermione curled her cloak about herself tightly and closed her eyes.

"Focus. Get rid of all distraction." She would get this right if it was the last bloody thing she did.


	7. His Guiding Star

November came to Hogwarts, winding its icy tendrils through every hallway, corner, and hiding-place. In years gone by, the majestic sight of the castle blanketed in snow had inspired a festive feeling among the residents, but now- it seemed to many- the bleak winter landscape was merely a reflection of the growing unease within the wizarding world. Even the owls up in their high tower huddled together for comfort, and Crookshanks no longer bothered to antagonize other familiars, preferring instead to spend his days curled by the fire in the Gryffindor common room, hissing at anyone who dared to approach.

Even Hagrid, usually so full of good cheer, was not immune to the gloom. He'd taken to skulking about in the forest, muttering to himself miserably, and seemed perpetually to be covered in cuts and bruises. Standing beside Harry and Ron in a small clearing in the forest, Hermione watched him warily, wondering what strange and dangerous beast the Magical Creatures Professor had in store for them today. With the looming threat of inspection by the High Inquisitor, she fervently hoped that it was nothing more interesting than a Pygmy Puff.

But, of course, Hagrid decided to show them Thestrals. Neville's face contracted in disgust and terror, as he watched what to everyone else looked like a shank of meat disappearing into thin air as the horse-like creature consumed it. She knew that Harry could see it too.

"Righ', now, who can tell me why some o' yeh can see 'em an' some can't?" Hagrid asked, and as if of its own volition, Hermione's hand shot up.

After all these years, it was like an involuntary twitch, like a little game she played with professors; they'd ask a question, deliberately looking in the other direction, but of course hers would be the only hand in the air. And then, " _very good , five points to Gryffindor"_ on and on, every day, ad nauseum.

Was this really her life? Watching the rubies fall in the hourglass, marking the days on the study calendar, rewriting essays until they spilled off the parchment…

"The only people who can see Thestrals," she said, "are people who have seen death."

Behind her, Parvati and Lavender gasped.

Unbidden came a memory of the old pub on the corner by her house, the one her parents went to when neither had the time nor inclination to cook, which was often. Her mum always got a glass of white wine, her dad always got chicken pie and Hermione would always steal bits of crust when he wasn't looking. She loved that dank, decrepit, dirty-glass pub as if she'd been raised in it - and almost wished she could be there now.

Would they ever go back? Would she ever again watch the regulars drowning their sorrows? Tune out her parents endlessly debating procedures, gossiping about patients, complaining about the NHS? Fall asleep, neck askew, propped up against the paneling in the booth? Oh how she'd hated it then, and oh, how she missed it now.

Her mother was always going on about dental hygiene and eating well, foisting all sorts of health-foods upon them, making up diet schedules - and always breaking them, always relenting - taking her for ice cream at one o'clock in the morning.

After a fight, when she was feeling guilty, her mum would get her a sundae, with bananas, cherries, caramel sauce - the works. And their fights were frequent, vicious. It was a type of hatred felt only for those one loved intensely - burning bright and dying away in the span of a single moment.

One of the worst had taken place the summer before third-year. Two letters came: the first was a notice from the Ministry about the escape of "deranged murderer" Sirius Black, and the second was a permission slip for the use of a Time-Turner. Reiterating to her muggle family just how dangerous and utterly strange her magical life had become; and it was no use to argue that these were merely dark days.

That time, Hermione recalled, she'd exploded the china cabinet in the dining room, obliterating every beautiful porcelain cup that once belonged to her grandmother.

Hours later, there came a tentative knock on her door.

"Hermione..."

"Go away," she'd hissed. "I h-hate you."

"Hermione, please…" Her mother entered - eyes wandering the room, which had been torn asunder by magic - but made no comment.

"No! Y-you s-s-said that you wish I'd never b-been born. You said I was a f-freak!" Hermione hiccuped, hiding her tear-stained face.

Silence. Then she felt the pressure of a hand on her back.

"I'm sorry, but you just make me so frustrated…" Quiet, barely a breath.

"I don't hate you, " she said. "You are my _child_. You are the reason I _live_. And I love you _so, so much..."_

And Hermione held on to that love, believed in it fervently, remembered it every time she felt terrified or sick or worthless. Every time she dreamt about the road and the fog and the blood on the gravel and her mother's still, glassy eyes reflecting the sky…

She hadn't watched her die. No, _that_ she had been spared. Instead, Mrs. Granger had died alone in a hospital bed while her husband and daughter downed a miserable lunch in the visitor's lounge, and now, many months later, Hermione couldn't see Thestrals. It had to be a good sign, didn't it? It had to mean that there was a sliver of a chance for things to change.

A soft, saccharine "hem, hem" drew Hermione out of her thoughts, and she groaned inwardly. Her eyes caught Harry's, who scowled faintly, as thought to say "What is _she_ doing here?"

"Inspection," Hermione whispered. _Damn the woman and her insufferable bigotry_! she railed mutely. _Who is she to vilify "half-breeds" when she has the charm of a goblin, the looks of a troll, and the intelligence of a Blast-Ended Skrewt?_

"Well, the truth, Professor Umbridge, is that my parents have had to hire a tutor for me… you see, they're concerned that I will never pass my Care of Magical Creatures O.W.L. with, um, the quality of the instruction here…" Pansy Parkinson was explaining in her high pitched voice, a touch too enthusiastic. Beside her, Draco Malfoy was nodding along with utmost self-importance.

"Only too right! My father - he's on the Board of Governors, as I'm sure you know, Professor - has been trying to convince Dumbledore to find a replacement, but there's only so much he can do," Malfoy drawled, sneaking malicious looks at the three Gryffindors. "That's why he's so supportive of _you_ -"

"Wanker," Ron snarled under his breath.

"Just like his Death Eater dad," Harry whispered with equal vitriol.

 _His Death Eater dad who has the Minister wrapped around his gilded little finger_ , Hermione thought bitterly.

In some ways, the Wizarding world was very similar to the Muggle one, and government corruption was certainly one obvious parallel. Just like his muggle counterparts, Fudge was willing to use the public's fear to limit freedoms: sending Umbridge to tyrannize Hogwarts, censoring the press, and extending the oversight and control of magical creatures of all kinds.

It wouldn't surprise her in the least if, due to the Ministry's decades-old persecution, Voldemort won over the goblins, the werewolves, the vampires, the dementors, and others (he already had the giants, according to Hagrid).The house-elves were evidently not considered worth converting, by either side, so servile and wretched were they. Even those, like Ron, who put no stock in blood-status, still held prejudice against non-humans.

The great irony of the Voldemort's ideology was that the wizarding world was not _hindered_ by the Muggle one - no, it was completely _dependent_ upon it. Wizards benefitted from muggle infrastructure, muggle technology, muggle inventions, even muggle _clothing._ It was a deeply-entrenched (but vehemently-denied) parasitic relationship, mirrored perhaps in the muggle institution of imperialism. And Voldemort - did he truly believe that Muggles were a hazard, or did he merely capitalize on prejudices for the attainment of his own nefarious agenda?

How much better would it be if she, Hermione Granger, could be the one to lead the wizarding world into a different era - one characterized by fairness, peace, and equality among humans and creatures, Muggle-borns and purebloods?

 _First, if I could only get people to join S.P.E.W. and help make more hats so all the house elves could be free…_

These reflections carried Hermione through the rest of her classes, dinner, and an idle hour watching Quidditch practice. By the time she made it back to Gryffindor tower, trailed by Ron, Ginny and Harry who were deep in discussion about this year's Hufflepuff line-up, Hermione had already planned the legislation she would need to introduce to the Wizengamot in the next several decades.

Just as they approached the portrait of the fat lady, it swung open and a couple of tiny first-years rushed out, one of whom was bright purple and seemed disoriented, being lead by the other, who clutched at her mouth, not quite able to conceal a tongue which was spotted and about a foot longer than it needed to be.

"Come on, Ron!" Hermione growled, grabbing him by the collar and dragging him through to the common room, where his brothers sat whispering in the corner, an abundance of colourful candies spread before them.

"You two!" she accused with a shaking finger.

"Reckon she's talking to us, George?" Fred quipped.

"Oh, no, I think she'd be a bit more obvious if she was."

"I - you - can't believe -" she stuttered in incoherent rage. Ron, seeing an opening, took his chance to slink off to the dormitory, clearly unwilling to participate in scolding his brothers.

"My dear Hermione, perhaps we can interest you in a Fainting Fancy?" Fred asked superciliously, and his brother explained: "One of the side-effects is a feeling of relaxation! I mean, after you regain consciousness." They grinned at her, looking as innocent as can be.

But this was too much for the beleaguered Prefect. "What in the name of Merlin is WRONG WITH YOU TWO?!" she demanded, pitch rising to glass-shattering decibels. "What did you do to those poor first years?" Without waiting for a response, she continued:"Don't tell me, it doesn't matter. Didn't I already tell you NOT to experiment on them? Didn't I tell you I was going to confiscate your entire stash and write to your mother if I caught you at it again? Well, guess what-" she declared, and with a brisk wave of her wand, vanished the entire spread of Skiving Snackboxes on the table.

Then she turned on her heel and stalked away towards the portrait.

"Where are you going?" George asked, a hint of panic in his voice.

"Owlery," came the icy reply.

"Oh, bleeding basilisks - Hermione, WAIT!"

The twins ran up to her, blocking her exit. "There _must_ be something we can do to convince you!" George pleaded.

"It's not like we mean any harm, I swear, we always try to heal them, but you've got to understand, we need to think about our business-" Fred continued.

"And our family, especially with what's going on at the Ministry, if dad loses his job…"

"Please Mione…"

"We are on our proverbial knees here!"

Crossing her arms, Hermione glared at them through narrowed eyes. "If I let you off, you'll never learn your lesson."

The twin's faces, gazing at her so hopefully just a moment before, both fell.

" _However_ ," she held up her hand, "IF you swear to never ever experiment on a Hogwarts student again, and IF you can prove to me that what you're selling has no dangerous side-effects then I MIGHT return to you only those products that I consider safe."

The twins nodded their assent, relieved, but she was not finished.

"Additionally, you will not promote, advertise, or sell Skiving Snackboxes on these grounds, or I WILL write to your mother. Also...I want you to teach me to apparate."

Flabbergasted at this last request, Fred stared at her. "You want us," he signalled himself and his brother with a thumb,"to teach you?"

Hermione nodded. "How to apparate."

"But you can't get a license until next year!"

"Nevertheless, I need to learn _now_."

"But _why?_ "

" _Because_ , George, in case you two have been too busy poisoning students to notice," she lectured," we are on the verge of _war_. One of us needs to be able to do it if Harry runs into trouble this year. And I have no doubt at all that he will."

Yes, that was the reason, though it wasn't the full reason, or even the primary one, God help her. But that tone of self-righteous irritation came as easy as breathing to Hermione (after all these years of practice) so the half-truth passed unnoticed.

"We're clear on that part, but why _us_?" Fred asked.

"Well," Hermione began reluctantly, "you two are actually quite... talented. But, you seem uninterested in applying that talent to anything really _serious_."

"Au contraire, my dear Hermione, there is _nothing_ more serious than skiving off lessons."

All she could do was roll her eyes at the pair of them, standing there grinning at her like a couple of devilish little pixies.

"Now, I am going to go do my rounds" she informed them in a rather McGonagall-esque tone, "and when I get back I better not find you two getting into any trouble. Clear?"

"Like the Great Lake on a sunny day!" George said, and Hermione, though looking less than satisfied with this response, clambered out of the portrait hole.

It would have been the end of her sparkling reputation to admit it, but rounds didn't really include much _rounding_ anymore. She was supposed to be prowling the hallways looking for rule-breakers necking in dark corners, but the nightly patrols had quickly deteriorated into illicit excursions into the Restricted Section and the Room of Requirement, intermittent meetings with Cho, and endless research. She kept trying convince herself that she did all this because time was running short , but really, it was because she couldn't sleep anymore.

Lately, a new task had been added to her list: sensing magical energy, like the Ravenclaw had shown her. But it wasn't her own energy she was trying to sense - no, that she was entirely unable to do for whatever reason - but that of others.

It was tedious work. For a week she meditated in different parts of the castle, trying to feel….something. Trying to reach out with her aura and grasp the tendrils of other energies. On the third night, she'd felt a slight tug on her senses, and following it, discovered only Mrs. Norris, sitting proudly by an enormous dead mouse. Since neither the cat nor the mouse could be said to possess magical energy, this could hardly be classed a success. Night four again brought her before the contemptuous gaze of Filch's familiar, and on night five, she'd been drawn to Peeves finger-painting mustaches onto some portraits. Night six had thrown her in the ignominious path of Severus Snape, who deducted 20 points for "certain future complicity in the crimes of Mr. Weasley and Mr. Potter." And on night seven, she'd merely fallen asleep in the Divination courtyard, only to wake in the twilight hours, frozen and stiff-limbed.

Outside the portrait-hole, she stood pondering her destination tonight: maybe it would be the third floor, where the library was located, or the fifth, favored by many a teenage couple. Approaching the moving staircase, she was annoyed to see the flight shift toward another landing, effectively leaving her stranded.

"Come back!" she called, fully aware that the insensate stone was about as likely to follow her commands as Harry at his most obstinate.

But even the Boy Who Lived could occasionally be prevailed upon to see reason, so perhaps it was not so shocking that the stairs paused, mid-air, and with an excruciating grind, shifted back towards her.

"Thank-you," she whispered in bewilderment, dashing down before the stairs had a chance to change their minds.

 _Did stairs have minds? Or a singular Mind?_ She was halfway down the next flight before the significance of that thought crashed through to the forefront of her consciousness. _Stairs. Sentience. Castle. Magic._

Feeling the ineffable sensation of an oncoming epiphany, Hermione stopped short, clutching at the railing for support. For a moment, time seemed to slow to a crawl...and then she felt it. Thrumming underneath her fingers as steady and sure as a heartbeat. The castle's magic.

Now that she sensed its even hum, she wondered how she'd never noticed before. It's essence was old, comforting, protective...as though the castle sensed the vulnerability of its occupants and wanted to shelter them from harm.

Giddy with her discovery, Hermione clutched the stone harder and pleaded: "Help me see, help me understand."

Nothing came at first. She shut her eyes, breathed deep, and asked again, trying to communicate her honesty, her good intentions, and her wish to learn. Long moments passed, and the mere wisp of an image began to form in her mind, an image of connectedness, continuity, currents moving in circles…

Oh.

 _Oh._

Something Cho said came back to her.

 _Magical energy is the only thing that is eternal; it merely finds a temporary home in us, and all other living things…_

Of course. Everything, everyone, was connected through magic. It moved from source to source through time - connecting - linking it all. Tuning in once more to the thrum of the castle's energies, she concentrated hard on feeling for some distinct frequency, some specific locus.

There was something...something directly below where she stood! And it was strong.

 _Sweet merciful Circe, progress at last!_

Nary a thought to spare for prudence or house-points, Hermione dashed down, breathlessly taking the stairs two at a time. She was almost there, could almost taste the sweetness of success…she dashed down the corridor, half blind...

..and crashed straight into none other than Albus Dumbledore.

"Oh! Headmaster!" Hermione gasped, horrified. Just like an icy wave, reality came crashing back. The giddiness of discovery was gone. She was just a silly schoolgirl, running about after curfew in a school menaced by Dolores Umbridge, in a world menaced by Lord Voldemort.

"Ah, Miss Granger," the Headmaster greeted placidly, as though she hadn't nearly felled him a moment ago. "Good evening."

"I - I'm so sorry sir! I wasn't looking where I was going!"

"No matter, no matter. I, too, was once young and filled with boundless energy." His small smile was all amusement and his robes were a particularly garish shade of lilac. Hermione felt his magic - the same she'd felt a minute ago, but now much stronger - envelop her, smothering her senses. _Had it always been like this? Why had she never noticed?_

Twining his fingers through the ends of his beard, Dumbledore observed her minutely.

"Forgive me for prying, but is there something which troubles you, Miss Granger?" For the briefest of seconds, his hand rested upon her shoulder, filling her with warmth and reassurance.

Her mouth was already half-open, poised to spill every deep, dark secret of her little heart - _and since when did she have deep, dark secrets?_ \- when she thought the better of it, and pressed her lips together firmly. Her admiration for and faith in the Headmaster had always been enormous, and though she desperately wanted to put her troubles in his hands like a child, she couldn't bear to lose his good opinion.

Instead she said, vague, but truthful enough: "I feel that… things are not going well."

Looking up, she watched him sigh, and the sound was bone-weary. "I am afraid that I cannot...disagree. These are indeed dark times, Miss Granger, but you must always remember, that where love and friendship live, hope lives also."

"Yes, sir," she agreed solemnly. "It's just that...everything is so overwhelming."

"I have always found the courage shown by yourself and your friends to be a source of great inspiration," he continued. "And while it pains me greatly to see such burdens placed on shoulders so young, it is certain that you have many trials still ahead. In many ways, Harry relies on you to be his guiding star, and I have the utmost faith that you will not lead him astray."

"Of course, sir," Hermione breathed, flattered beyond measure by his praise. "I will do my best!"

"I have no doubt, my dear. Now, perhaps it would be best to retire for the night before we incur the notice of Mrs. Norris, hmm?" he quipped, and Hermione, feeling inordinately chipper, bid goodnight and headed towards the Gryffindor common room.

Dumbledore watched her retreating back in contemplation.

"In some circles, it is considered impolite to eavesdrop," he said suddenly, though to the casual observer, the hall was empty.

"And in some others, it is considered unethical to manipulate students," came the biting response, as Severus Snape emerged from a shadowed alcove where a suit of armour had hidden his presence. "But your ability to produce extravagant platitudes at the drop of a hat is really quite impressive, Albus. Do all Gryffindors share that particular talent, or is something acquired with age?"

"Ah, Severus, must you always take the dim view of things?"

"Yes," the Potions Master responded sulkily, crossing his arms and trying to pretend as though he wasn't embarrassed to have been caught. In truth, much of his time was spent skulking around in the shadows, trying to catch rulebreakers unawares. He'd been on the verge of a satisfying confrontation with that irritating chit, Granger (which would have certainly catapulted Slytherin back into first-place in the running for the House-cup) when the Headmaster had beaten him to it.

"Then you disagree with my comments? You believe that Harry does not seek counsel from Miss Granger?"

Snape could tell that the Headmaster was humoring him, the old goat.

"Oh, I have no doubt that Potter takes advice from any number of his dim-witted classmates, but my objection is on Miss Granger's behalf."

"Truly?" Dumbledore asked with a small smile.

"Of girl can barely contain her overwhelming urge to bestow upon us the fruits of her _vast intellect -_ at _every_ possible opportunity - as it is. I'm not convinced that her ego could afford to be any more overblown without causing permanent damage - "

"Some might say the same about you, you great bat," McGonagall interrupted, rounding the corner and approaching the wizards in all her tartan glory. "And with more reason."

"Ah, the lioness graces us with her presence at last, and just in time to defend her cubs! No need to trouble yourself, Minerva; one can hardly accuse the Headmaster of failing to favor his own house."

But the lioness in question refused to indulge him, having long grown accustomed to Snape's contrarian nature. She merely raised a single sardonic eyebrow, reminding the younger wizard that she had been intimidating students since long before he was born. With far fewer theatrics, one might add.

"I have been searching for you two," she said, unsmiling.

"What news, Minerva?" Dumbledore demanded, voice now void of all levity. As he studied the Transfiguration Professor, he could see that her face was drawn and tired.

"It is as we suspected," she said. "The Dementors no longer follow the Ministry. I am afraid…" she shuddered, "I am afraid that a revolt is imminent."


	8. A Bastion of Justice and Harmony

Watchwizard Eric Munch stared at the dregs of his tea miserably, regretting for the hundredth time that he'd never paid much attention in Charms; if he had, perhaps he'd be able to make himself another steaming cup. He knew there was some spell for conjuring up water; that would be a start, if he could only remember it.

"Agua-net? No, that's not right…" he muttered to himself. "Aqua-mint?" That wasn't it either.

Maybe he could just take a bit from the fountain? No, that wouldn't do; some malcontent from Magical Maintenance had probably pissed in it during the strike. Gits.

Somewhere, it struck midnight.

Glancing down to the end of the Atrium, where the Fountain of Magical Brethren painted glittering reflections on the tile, he was surprised to see two figures huddled together, obviously deep in conversation. One sported a bright green bowler and the other one - and who could ever mistake it? - had an obnoxious silver-white mane.

Shaking his head in disgust, Munch wondered how many other nobodies like him were privy to this seedy underbelly of the political system. And how many oblivious chumps were there who believed that their ballot was sacred? He'd believed it too, when he was a young man.

No, the only thing that mattered in this gods-forsaken bastion of Justice and Harmony was who you knew, and what you knew.

As he mulled all of this over, a glimmer of light in the darkness caught his eye. The visitors lift was descending - was it broken again? He'd put in a request for repairs a week ago, and it was probably still sitting on the bottom of Cattermole's in-tray.

He was duty-bound to investigate, and, if the journey put him in a position to accidentally overhear the Minister's conversation, well, all the better. Carefully, he stood and made his way across the long hall.

The whispering voices became more distinct.

" - an excellent idea to create an Advisory Board for Azkaban, Lucius."

"I'm gratified that you think so, Minister," Malfoy replied in an unctuous tone. "These are troubling times indeed, and it would do great credit to this administration to show fortitude in the face of adversity."

Fudge wore the look of a greatly beleaguered man. "All of this senseless rabble-rousing! To tell you the truth, I'm quite at the end of my patience with Dumbledore. He may have been a great wizard once, but he presumes too much! Too much, I tell you!"

"I have great faith that Dolores will do what she can at Hogwarts, but we must not neglect the subversive elements on our own doorstep - "

Abruptly, the conversation stopped as they noticed the watch-wizard coming round the fountain.

"Lift's gone wonky again, Minister. Just gon' take a look," Munch explained nervously.

"Oh, good, very good." Fudge replied in a clear dismissal. They obviously considered him beneath their notice.

Just as Munch had suspected, the red box was empty, but he set about resetting the entry code just in case.

Meanwhile, Malfoy worked on convincing Fudge that Dumbledore's agents in the Ministry were spying on him. He was so focused on this task that he didn't notice the feather-light touch ghosting across the back of his coat.

Hermione had had practice stealing hair from the unsuspecting, of course - as the Polyjuice debacle in second year could confirm - but she was still unaccountably anxious as she grasped the long, pale strands between her fingers. She had no idea what she was going to do with them.

It was the security wizard she'd intended to impersonate tonight, but hearing Malfoy the elder pouring his poison into the Minister's ear was beyond infuriating. Fudge himself was perhaps an even bigger buffoon, but there wasn't much she could do about him. He was bald, after all.

"Don't you find it curious that, after nearly two years, Law Enforcement has made such… _inconsistent_ progress in finding Sirius Black?" Malfoy drawled.

"Hmmm," Fudge hummed, noncommittal. "The Editor of the Prophet _has_ been pestering me for updates...says the public is growing restless for progress…But the Aurors have always been very competent. Yes, most competent."

"Oh, that is unquestionable. But let us say, for the sake of argument, that there is a certain individual, whose loyalties may be… divided… well, they could certainly misdirect the investigation if it suited them."

"That could be true, I suppose, but…the repercussions..."

"Ah - I understand you perfectly. You don't want to tip your hand, in case our concerns turn out to be unfounded, eh? What about conducting an interdepartmental audit, by someone impartial? Yaxley, perhaps? He is painstakingly conscientious and a great personal friend."

 _Bastard!_ Hermione thought. He couldn't be allowed to get away with this.

"An audit, you say? Very clever, Lucius, yes, very clever indeed."

The wizards concluded their conversation, and, while the Minister returned to his office to use his personal Floo, Malfoy headed to one of the public fireplaces lining the marbled hall. Hermione followed him, still seething, torn between throwing a curse and strangling him with her bare hands right then and there. A small (and rather ugly) part of her gleefully wondered if the father would look as terrified by a physical attack as the son had done all those years ago.

This was no cowering schoolboy, however, but a dangerous Death Eater. And she wasn't exactly Harry Potter, who was somehow always managing to defeat opponents far more powerful than he.

So, in the end, she merely watched him disappear into the green whirlwind of the at the ashes he left behind, Hermione noticed that he'd apparently dropped something as the Floo took him away. It was an empty leather coin-purse.

Carefully, she picked it up. It bore an ostentatious monogram, the "M" formed with two serpents twining around a sword, leaving no doubt as to the owner. She put it in her pocket.

The last escapade into the Ministry had been a near-disaster, and if there was one thing that could be said about Hermione Granger, it was that she was a quick study. She'd cast a number of spells on herself and the Invisibility cloak (once more pilfered from Harry's trunk) to deter detection.

It was unlikely that either Malfoy or the security wizard would have been able to sense her without the charms (which ability, Hermione had deduced, was proportional to magical power) but it wouldn't do to be overconfident.

She placed a sleeping spell on the wizard named Munch and took his wand, leaving him slumped down on his desk. Just as suspected, his wand was sufficient to convince the lift to take her down to level nine. And this time, her hands didn't tremble as she broke the wards on the black door, nor as she made her way through the circular room.

Every avenue of research had been exhausted; everything that could have been done with the time-turner - short of breaking it apart - had been done. It took several weeks after that before Hermione acknowledged that she was at an absolute dead end, and that she would need to return. It may have been tempting fate, but the prospect of failure at this point was unthinkable.

Back in the Time Room amongst the ticking clocks, she copied more research and took two more Time Turners to experiment on, and was extremely relieved that no one seemed to have added wards after her previous break-in.

Hermione had promised herself that if she was ever in the Department of Mysteries again, she would do something about the surveillance files, so the next stop was the room with the Trace Map. Beginning with McGonagall's file, she destroyed only the pages with more personal information and left the rest, having reasoned that removing the file completely was more likely to attract attention. The rest of the Order Members followed: Mr. Weasley had a particularly large file, as did Alastor Moody. Tonks and Shacklebolt, on the other hand, seemed to be flying beneath the radar of whoever was in charge of this repugnant spying operation.

Reaching "Snape, Severus, b. 1960", Hermione paused for a moment, undecided.

 _He's an evil bastard, and we can't trust him!_ a voice that sounded like Harry's counseled.

 _Don't be stupid! Just put it down and get out of here!_ the little Ginny in her head chimed in.

But curiosity proved to be an insurmountable temptation once again. Instead of putting the file back, Hermione opened it. Apparently, Snape was a half-blood (which surprised her), and the youngest Potions Master to ever teach at Hogwarts or to head Slytherin house (which did not). There were copies of his publications spanning more than a decade.

There was also a muggle photo of a dilapidated row-house; in front stood a haggard-looking woman, holding an infant in her scrawny arms. The entire scene made Hermione unaccountably sad.

But before she could consider what her friends would say if they found her pitying Snape, Hermione felt a distinct shift in the energy of the room.

 _Duck!_ all of her senses screamed.

But it was too late. A non-verbal spell hit her in the back, and she fell to the floor amidst the scattered archives of Snape's unfortunate life.

"Aha! I knew it!" It was Senior Unspeakable Bode, back with a vengeance.

"You might have slipped through my fingers last time, but I've put wards all over this office!" he gloated. "I just _knew_ you'd be back."

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid,_ Hermione chanted in her own mind. He'd put a body-bind on her. _And really, serves you bloody right. Why, oh, why didn't you check for security spells?_

He approached his prey, of whom only the end of one faded trainer was visible.

"Now, lets see who you really are… and why you're so interested in my files..."

Bode lifted the Invisibility Cloak off carefully and turned her around, so she could see his face, and he, hers.

His expression was absolutely nonplussed.

" _You?_ But… I know you from the paper… Harry Potter's school friend… what in the name of Merlin…." he muttered.

But Hermione wasn't listening.

"Polyjuice? No, not very likely…" he continued. "Well I suppose I can wait to see…"

Ever since the meeting with Dumbledore, she'd started paying more attention to the magical presence of the people around her. She could now recognize who came into the Gryffindor Common Room without even looking up from her homework, just by the feel of their aura.

The energy she was sensing now -oily, supercilious, gaudy - was familiar too. In fact, she'd suffered the presence of its owner barely an hour ago.

 _Lucius bloody Malfoy._

 _Run!_ she wanted to scream to the oblivious wizard still staring at her. _Run before he kills you!_

And as though he'd heard her thoughts, Bode's face twisted into an ugly snarl and he reached for her, wrapping his hands around her throat. Squeezing.

His eyes above hers were wild, reflecting some epic internal struggle.

"M-mud...blood…" he choked out.

Hermione panicked. Air - breathing - was something one took for granted, and to have it suddenly taken away was disorienting and terrifying.. She could have cried to think that it would all end right now, as she lay there on the floor, after everything that had happened.

 _Please_ , she thought, looking directly into his eyes, _please, please, I don't want to die._

Bode's face contorted into a grimace of pain, as though he were trying to lift some immensely heavy burden. His lips moved soundlessly, mouthing what may have been the word "prophesy". But the edges of Hermione's vision had begun to blur, and she couldn't be sure.

Suddenly, the pressure around her throat was gone, and her attacker threw himself backward with a cry of pain.

"No, no, no...can't… won't…" he muttered in a broken tone.

Horrified, Hermione watched as he knelt before her and smashed his forehead repeatedly into the cold granite of the floor. When he drew away, his face was covered in blood.

It was painful to see, and she desperately wished she could look away. But he continued, and eventually she heard the sickening crunch of a breaking bone.

Bode drew a heaving sob, and in the dead silence of the room, the sound came back again and again in an eerie echo. The man may have tried to kill her not a moment ago, but Hermione felt terribly bad for him.

 _Why? Why is he doing this?_

A spasm passed over Bode's face, and it went unnaturally blank. He stood, gave her a long impassive look, and walked away.

In the distance, she heard the slam of a door.

It was only then that all of the pieces fell into place. _Malfoy. Bode. Prophesy. Mudblood._

 _Imperius Curse._

It hadn't looked nearly so bad when the impostor Moody had practiced it on their fourth-year defense class and, at the time she'd wondered why the Imperius was in the same league as the torture and murder curses. But now she understood. What she'd just witnessed… it was indeed unspeakable.

Oh, how she hated that man. Nearly killing Ginny and sending an Order member to prison hadn't satisfied him - no, he was so determined to get (what she now realized was) a prophecy that he'd cursed poor Bode.

To be forced to murder someone, against your will? She couldn't even imagine how terrible that must be. But he'd managed to resist somehow, and she could only hope that he'd find the strength to keep fighting.

Hermione lay there for what felt like an age, waiting for the _Petrificus Totalus_ to wear off. When feeling returned to her stiff limbs, she stood on unsteady feet and vanished all of the scattered papers.

She had to go after him, she realized. There was no other choice. Malfoy could not be allowed to succeed in whatever diabolical task he was carrying out for Voldemort.

So, Hermione made her way to the hall with the glittering glass orbs, hoping it wasn't too late.

Something was wrong; it was obvious the moment she opened the door. A thick white mist lay heavy across the floor, but through it she could make out the bright flashes of spells being thrown.

"Protego!" A hoarse cry. With a tremor of recognition, Hermione realized that it belonged to the ancient witch she'd met before.

"Avada Kedavra!" Bode shouted, and the mist turned momentarily green. Hermione held her breath.

"Boderick! What in blazes are you doing, you stupid boy?" the witch demanded in quiet fury.

"Agatha...help…" he croaked.

Hermione was closer now, so close she could see them facing each other, wands aloft.

"That's all right...just take it easy," the witch crooned. "Be a good lad, and lower your wand...there, that's it... slowly, now…"

His wand hand trembled, and began its descent, but just as she was sure he was about to give up, Hermione saw him shudder.

Knowing what was coming, she cast _Stupefy_ and he fell down, the words of the Killing Curse half-way out of his mouth.

The Keeper of the Prophecies muttered some incantation, and the mist vanished, leaving Hermione pinned under the witch's steely glare.

It was only then that Hermione realized that she was no longer wearing the cloak.

"You again," the older witch said without surprise. "You really shouldn't be here, but since you did just save my life, I suppose I can't complain."

Unsure how to respond, Hermione blurted the first thing that came to mind: "I think he's under the Imperius Curse."

The witch called Agatha nodded curtly. "I thought as much. Do you know who…?"

"Lucius Malfoy," Hermione replied without hesitation. Someone had to know because it was certain that the snake would try again. "He wants one of the prophecies."

"Interesting... _very_ interesting…"Agatha murmured, circling the prone form of her colleague.

"What are we going to do?"

The older witch looked up. Her gaze left Hermione feeling as though she'd been dissected, examined, pronounced adequate, and haphazardly stitched back up.

"We're going to let him have it," she said at last.

"You...you can't be serious," Hermione protested, aghast.

"Oh, he won't be able to touch it. Only those about whom the prophecy is made can retrieve it. If anyone else tries, the protective curses will be activated and they'll be knocked out for a good while... but Broderick already knew that. As a matter of fact, I suspect that he intended to get caught."

"Oh. I see. That way, he'll be taken away where he can't do any harm and Malfoy will realize he can't force someone else to get the prophesy for him."

"Smart girl. Now go stand over there and wait for my signal to _Rennervate_ him."

Doing as she was told, Hermione crouched behind a desk and watched as Agatha performed a series of complex motions with her wand. A memory charm, she realized.

Soon, the witch knelt down beside her.

"Now," she commanded, and Hermione released the luckless Bode from his unconscious state.

Precariously, he stood, and looked about in confusion. But the question of where he was and what he was doing didn't phase him for long, as the curse took over. They followed him quietly down the aisles until he reached the P's.

 _Of course_ , Hermione thought. _P for Potter._

Bode scanned the neatly-labelled rows of orbs, and at last, his eyes seemed to alight on the one he sought. He reached for it, but in the moment before his fingers made contact with the glass, there was a loud _SNAP!_ and, in a flash of blue flames, the wizard was thrown across the room.

Agatha approached him, and, kneeling down, cast several spells. "He'll keep till morning, I think," she said. "Then 's can have him."

When she was finished, the older witch addressed Hermione: "Now. Tell me what you're doing here."

"I...uhhh,well..." Hermione stuttered, completely blindsided. No excuses came to mind, so she told the truth. "I came to talk to you."

When no acknowledgement was forthcoming, she ploughed on.

"Well, you see, it was something you said the last time we ...uhh, met. You said that you knew I was a "fellow-traveller", and that got me thinking, well, that is, I wondered if you could help me…"

Trying to gauge the other witch's reaction, Hermione could make out nothing but a minute pursing of the lips. There had been an entire speech prepared, but she couldn't remember it now.

Instead, she muddled thought with all the Gryffindor determination she could muster, and hoped for the best.

"I'm doing research, you see. On time-travel. Only, I'm stuck. I've tried everything. Everything I could think of, that is. So...I just wanted to, you know, pick your brain…but I understand if you don't want to. Just tell me, and I'll leave right now… "

"Alright, that's enough," Agatha snapped. "Get your foot out of your mouth, girl, it's painful to watch." She summoned a piece of parchment and scribbled something, passing it to Hermione

"You know the place?"

Hermione nodded. _The One-Eyed Harpy_ : a pub in Diagon Alley that had a reputation for attracting the criminal element.

"Good. Does the time suit?"

Again, Hermione nodded. She couldn't believe her luck.

"It's settled then. And now, you really need to be going."

"Is...is he going to be alright?" Hermione asked, indicating Bode's insensate form.

Agatha gave her another one of her piercing stares, and sighed. "In time. But it's anyone's guess as to how long it'll take. The wards...well, I set them decades ago, and couldn't tell you exactly what they were."

Hermione bid the witch goodnight and turned toward the door. As she walked away, a feeling of helpless anger settled like lead in the pit of her belly. Bode had overcome the Imperius Curse to save her life. He deserved better.

Suddenly, she remembered the coin-purse she'd stowed in her pocket. Pulling it out, she ran her thumb over the gilded embroidery.

 _What would Lucius Malfoy do?_ the thought came unbidden.

After a moment, a vicious little smirk curled up the corner of her mouth The bastard was finally going to get a taste of his own medicine.

The coin purse was carefully placed where it looked as though it could have been dropped during a hasty escape. Not too obvious, though. No, Malfoy's style was subtle and serpentine.

On the way upstairs she placed his long blond hairs into the Polyjuice and, by the time she stepped foot in the Atrium, Hermione _was_ Lucius Malfoy, down to the tips of his dragon-hide boots.

Munch was still asleep. She deliberately tossed his wand on the desk instead of returning it to his pocket. Then, she woke him.

"Mr Malfoy!" the man exclaimed, rubbing sleep from his half-closed eyes.

"Yes, what was your name again?" she drawled, in a decent imitation."Never mind. It hardly matters. I had...forgotten something, and was forced to return."

"And did you find it? _Sir?_ " The epithet was distinctly contemptuous.

 _Good,_ she thought. _The more angry, the more suspicious._

Five years of dealing with Draco Malfoy provided sufficient material for this impersonation.

"That is hardly any of your concern. Pestering your betters isn't in your job description, is it? No? I didn't think so."

Obviously seething, the watchwizard narrowed his eyes. " _Everything_ that goes on here after hours is my business. _Sir_."

"Then I suggest you get back to work and leave me in peace."

Having said her part, Hermione turned away, and, with a satisfying swish of a cloak, stalked imperiously towards the visitor's entrance. Munch was surely not as stupid as he looked; any minute now, he would put the pieces together.

The night was miserably cold, but this did nothing to dampen Hermione's spirits. Walking out of the digny alley with a certain swing in her step, she was brought up short as a taxi sped past, nearly knocking her down.

As it's shape grew fainter in the distance, she could still hear the fading echo of cursing, which brought on the sudden realization that she was in London. _Muggle_ London.

She was in _Muggle London_ looking like _Lucius Malfoy._ For the next _hour,_ at least _._ Oh, dear.

Ducking back into the shadows, Hermione hastily transfigured the wizard's robes into a black overcoat and donned a less ridiculous hairstyle. Then, she made her way down the street, with no clear destination in mind, knowing only that she couldn't linger lest Munch got it in his head to follow along.

Maybe it was best to just hang around a bit before going back. Should she go into a pub to get warm? Was anything open this late?

She walked, hands cradled in the crook of her arms against the biting cold. On all sides, the whitewashed buildings rose imposing from the ice-slick sidewalk, their stately facades turned ominous in the darkness.

Snow began to fall. In the distance, she heard the wail of sirens, and far beyond, the unrelenting hum of traffic.

A black town car zipped past, pulling up in front of the Ministry of Defense across the way. A side gate opened and shut. Then, a woman wrapped in a grey overcoat came into view.

Though her hair was neat and her coat professional, she wore a pair of brutal-looking, impossibly-high black heels. Their persistent clicking drew Hermione's eye and she stood transfixed, watching the woman approach the car.

 _Could she be a bureaucrat?_ wondered Hermione. _A spy? Or a courtesan?_

But in a moment it became obvious that she too had been captured in the woman's gaze; it traveled the length of her form - Malfoy's form - languidly, and approved. The woman granted her a fleeting smile. Then, she got into the back seat, and the car drove off.

The woman had vanished just as suddenly as she'd appeared, leaving Hermione to wonder if she'd been a phantasm born from the shadows of the night. Still, she stood a long while staring at the sidewalk where those devilish shoes had tread, filled with an inexplicable longing.


	9. The One-Eyed Harpy

"That's it, Miss Granger, just a bit higher!"

Obediently, Hermione raised her wand, levitating the garlands closer to the ceiling, and regretting, for the hundredth time, having signed up for Professor Flitwick's annual Christmas-decoration campaign.

"No, not _that_ high….just _a bit_ to the left…"

Truthfully, she was just about ready to hex the diminutive wizard. Oh, it had been fun for the first thirty minutes, but now, after hours spent wrangling with mischievous ornaments, fighting off Peeves, and suffering Flitwick's obsessive perfectionism, Hermione was at the absolute end of her patience.

"Now, just lower it just the _tiniest_ bit...and...that's just the spot!" Flitwick squeaked, satisfied at last. "Now could you help me over here? I want to put Christmas hats on all the suits of armour."

"Certainly, Professor," Hermione snapped, snatching the box of hats from him a bit too forcefully and nearly knocking him down.

He'd caught her in a bad moment: sneaking back into the castle after her meeting with Agatha, she'd been too flustered to realize what she was agreeing to.

And what an odd meeting it had been.

One would think that a seedy pub would be empty at 8 in the morning on a Sunday, but when Hermione arrived at the _One-Eyed Harpy_ , nearly every nook and cranny was occupied by some dubious-looking character. She thought she'd caught a brief glimpse of Mundungus Fletcher deep in conversation with a disgraced Puddlemere United Chaser, but couldn't be too sure.

Pulling her cloak down over her face, Hermione strode up to the bar and asked for a Butterbeer.

She thought she rather deserved it after her very best Apparition so far. The twins were constantly reminding her that they'd done it perfectly on their first attempt, while Hermione had splinched herself not once, but _six_ times in their first practice session. There was also that pitiful attempt earlier this week, when she'd spent a full thirty minutes vomiting her insides out in the alley behind the Ministry. But no one ever had to know about _that_.

But today...today was _perfect_. Oh, how she wished she could throw it in their glib little faces.

"Excuse me, sir? I asked for a Butterbeer," she repeated to the hunched figure behind the counter.

"Oh I heard you," the proprietor snapped, turning to face her. To her horror, Hermione realized that the barman was in fact a witch, and moreover, clearly the namesake of the _One-Eyed Harpy_.

"We don't sell that swill here, girl," she barked before Hermione could stutter out some awkward apology.

"Oh...erm..uhh, what else do you have?"

Instead of a reply, the witch pointed to a plaque above their heads, which was so grimy that many of the menu items were no longer legible. Hermione could barely make out the names of such libations as the Fiery Flobberworm, the Reaper's Revenge, and the Barmy Boggart.

"Let's have a couple of Vipertooths," a voice commanded from beside her, and turning, Hermione saw that Agatha had arrived. "And you'd best give me the good stuff from the back."

The one-eyed witch turned upon the newcomer in surprise. "Agatha, you old slag, I haven't seen you 'round these parts since the war! Don't think I forgot, either." She tapped her forehead for emphasis. "You owe me twenty Galleons."

"Not on your life," Agatha snarked, and they cackled together for a moment like a couple of old friends who'd remembered a private joke.

Then, the older witch dragged Hermione over to a table in the corner, and their drinks followed soon after, levitating through the crowd with surprising agility.

The Vipertooth turned out to be an innocuous-looking, fizzy, green drink. Thinking herself fortunate, Hermione picked it up and took a sip. It was lemony and sweet.

"Mmmm...what's in this?"

Her companion gave her a considering look. "Dragon piss," she deadpanned.

Hermione choked, and, to her great embarrassment, sprayed an entire mouthful over the tabletop.

Agatha let out an enormous peal of laughter.

"A-ha! Gets them every time!"

It was indeed funny now that Hermione remembered it, but at that moment she had been mortified and furious.

Having finished dressing every suit of armor in the main hall in fuzzy hats, she moved onto the Transfiguration corridor.

Agatha had told her that Bode had been taken to hospital, and would likely be spending the winter in the Spell Damage Ward.

"I wanted to congratulate you on your little coup with Malfoy, by the way," she'd thrown out, an apparent non-sequitur.

"I, um...I'm not sure what you mean, I -"

"Of course not," the older with interjected with a grin. "Nevertheless, scuttlebutt has it that Fudge is avoiding Malfoy's owls. Too much to expect an inquiry, though."

"Oh," was all Hermione could manage, trying to ignore the small bubble of vindictive glee rising in her chest. Somehow, it seemed indecent to revel in successful revenge in front of this witch. It was one thing to assault Draco and trap Rita Skeeter in a jar, and then show off to her friends. Because Ron and Harry didn't judge the uglier sides of her character. But this was someone whose good opinion she craved.

"So, tell me how long you've been sneaking into the Ministry," Agatha said conversationally.

"O-only t-twice," Hermione stuttered, blindsided. "I swear!"

"You fluster too easy, girl. With the kind of trouble you seem to get into, I'm surprised you haven't given yourself away a hundred times over."

"Yes, well. I'm working on it." And she really was. Unfortunately, she seemed to suffer from the characteristic Gryffindor malady of perpetual foot-in-mouth.

The older witch wanted to know all about her research, and was able to understand many of the subtleties, having once worked for the Time Subdivision (as well as, seemingly, every other office in the D.o.M.).

"I've brought some of my notes. Perhaps you want to take a look?" Hermione asked, uncertain.

She was used to people beating a hasty retreat at the first whiff of "notes", but was pleasantly surprised when Agatha grabbed the parchment impatiently, pulled out her pince-nez, and began to read.

She shuffled through the papers for a quarter-hour, and then her eyes widened in shock.

"You've done it," she declared, her voice half-anger, half-disbelief.

There was no point in asking what she meant. Or denying it.

"Yes."

"You realize that no one has crossed the Threshold since - " She stopped short, and changed directions abruptly. "The consequences - the _known_ consequences, that is - have been catastrophic."

"I know. I read all about it, and I took precautions. You see, the problem last time was that they-"

"Went back to far. Yes, I've thought so too. And since I can see that you've done your research, you know that all of the effects don't manifest right away. There's no way you can tell me for certain that this insane little stunt you've pulled hasn't done irreparable damage."

"I…I realize now how reckless it was, and the truth is… something's wrong with me. Strange things have been happening. I'm seeing things. Things are… disappearing."

Agatha closed her eyes in deep frustration. "You idiot girl. If you came to me for advice, I'm sorry to say that I can't help you. I wouldn't even know where to begin."

"But you can help me find information. Please… I just made a stupid mistake, and now I'm so scared... " Hermione pleaded with her eyes.

The older witch stared at her long and hard. Gradually, her gaze turned from anger to pity.

"How old are you?" she asked.

"Sixteen," Hermione lied.

"Too smart for your own good, huh? And too foolish to realize your own limitations. The curse of youth."

"Please," Hermione whispered, "I just want a chance to fix what I've done. I know… I know that all this might be irreversible but, I've got to try."

Agatha took a long draught of her fizzy green concoction, seemingly gathering her thoughts. "The Ministry banned all practical research in time-travel back in the 70s. They've got the Unspeakables turning chickens into eggs, and nonsense like that. The department's a bloody disgrace nowadays. Nobody there will be able to help you."

"I figured as much," Hermione said. "Their research, umm… left a lot to be desired. But I was hoping you knew somebody from the old days?"

"Ehh, most of 'em kicked the bucked long ago. Ole' Min's still around I bet. She's the last researcher to have made any serious advancement in the field. Used to run that department, if I recall. Ran it right into the ground, too. After she was gone, the higher-ups were too scared to hire anyone competent ever again."

"Min?" _Not Minerva Mcgonagall, surely?_ "Where can I find her?"

"Judith Mintumble. She took her retirement in the North Sea."

"You mean _Azkaban_?!" Hermione squeaked.

Then she remembered: she'd read about the Mintumble case all those months ago in Grimmauld Place. "So it's hopeless, then." The feeling of disappointment was overwhelming.

"Come now, you're a clever girl. We have supposedly top-notch security down at the D.o.M, you know. In fact, the same dunderheads from the Auror office set the wards for both us and Azkaban. Which reminds me: I need to send a howler to that maggot, Scrimgeour."

"But...but…" Hermione sputtered, "Azkaban is impenetrable!"

"I think Sirius Black might disagree with you there," Agatha chuckled darkly.

Sending wary glances in every direction, Hermione leaned over the table. "Are you suggesting," she whispered furiously, "that I _break into Azkaban_ to talk to Judith Mintumble?"

"I'm not _suggesting_ anything," the older witch said, slow and deliberate. " _But_ you should consider that the poor sods who work there aren't able to produce a Patronus after a couple of months. Dementors, and all that. Just food for thought."

And Hermione had been thinking about it furiously ever since. In fact, her first order of business after finally escaping Flitwick was a visit to the library. If her twelve year old self could only see her now, sneaking into the Restricted Section under Madam Pince's very nose! She'd been a closet rule-breaker even then, but these newfound levels of recklessness surprised even Hermione.

After nearly an hour of fruitless searching, Hermione pulled out a book called _Protecting your Magical Home from Werewolves, Vampires, and other Diabolical Creatures_. It turned out to be a rambling treatise proclaiming all "half-breeds" and non-humans to be vicious, blood-thirsty killers and recommended full-scale extermination. Of course, Hermione found this truly abhorrent reading, but was glad she persevered when she came across a section discussing Dementors.

The author explained that every guard and visitor to ever step foot in Azkaban was protected by a charm which made them effectively invisible to dementors by suppressing emotions. Hermione thought back to Sirius' tale and how he'd been able to survive and eventually escape in Animagus form. It was essentially the same thing; as a dog, he would have had only the simplest of emotion and would thus have been equally "invisible".

But there was one problem. She'd never even heard of a spell that could do that.

Hermione shut the book in frustration, drawing a suspicious look from the librarian.

Another dead end.

* * *

A few days later, Dumbledore's Army had its last meeting before the winter holidays. A gnawing feeling of deja-vu plagued Hermione as she thoughtlessly sparred with Neville, all the while watching Cho flirt with Harry out of the corner of her eye.

"Ow!" Neville grunted, landing on his arse for the tenth time as Hermione's spell hit home.

"Sorry, Neville!"

"Don't be. It's not your fault I'm rubbish," he moped, pulling himself up gingerly.

"You're not!" Hermione reassured him once again. "You've improved loads since September. You just need to believe in yourself!"

"Yeah, right," he muttered. He turned in the direction of Hermione's gaze. "They look cozy over there, don't they?"

Hermione shot Neville an irritated look.

"Actually, I just remembered, I have to ask Harry something…" She started in the direction of the giggling couple, but fingers grasped her shoulder. It was Fred.

"Come on, let's get back to the common room," he told her.

"But I have to - "

"Merlin's bollocks, 'Mione, can't you see they want to snog?"

She could see it, in fact, and it made her want to punch something. Specifically, something green-eyed and spectacled.

Half an hour later, her worst suspicions were confirmed when Harry wandered into the common room in a daze. Predictably, Ron couldn't wait to mine him for details while Hermione, desperate to tune out the conversation, pulled out a sheet of parchment and began a letter to Victor.

"Congratulations on your win against Portugal last week, she wrote. I caught the end of the match on the wireless and, according to Ron, your "Wronski Feint" in the final quarter was the clincher. I'm not sure what that means, but he assures me that it's terribly impressive.

I hope you are doing well. I went to Madame Puddifoot's a few weeks back and thought of you - she's still serving those awful Hagfish scones! Remember the time you took a bite out of one and then spit it out - all over my face? To be honest, I've really been missing our chats lately. You always gave me good advice, and I could certainly use some right now."

Victor and Hermione had exchanged a few greetings in the library, but the first time they'd really talked had been at that nauseatingly saccharine little tea shop. Ironically, she had gone in there to avoid him, or more specifically, to avoid the entourage of giggling fangirls following him through the streets of Hogsmeade. Krum seemed to be the only thing her fellow Gryffindors could talk about lately, and Hermione couldn't decide whether she resented him, envied him, or admired him. Certainly she'd daydreamed about being an international Quidditch star with a coterie of beautiful French girls shadowing her every move.

That's where he found her: sitting by herself in a room full of couples, nose in a book.

"May I sit vith you?" he'd asked.

"If you like," Hermione had said, trying to infuse as much discouragement into her tone as possible. "What happened to all of your… admirers?"

"Ah, I hav come here to escape," he chuckled. "But to be honest, their attentions are vasted on me."

It took Hermione a full minute to understand his implication.

"Why...why are you telling me this?"

"Vell, ve have that in common I think."

"You don't know what you're talking about!" Hermione snapped.

"Very vell," Krum raised his hands defensively. "But if you must protest, then I vould suggest not to stare at the Beauxbatons girls."

Hermione shut her eyes in mortification at having been so easily spotted. "Oh, god."

The proprietress chose exactly that moment to come by with a fresh pot of tea, and the topic was dropped for the moment as they ordered. But all too soon, curiosity go the better of Hermione.

"Does anyone else know… you know, about you?"

"My manager has vorbidden me to say. He thinks it vould end my Quidditch career and it is true. The British are very conservative and my country is so even more."

"Oh. But that's seems terribly unfair, doesn't it?"

"I hav become used. The vorst is to have to talk to the fans, but I cannot say no."

"I can imagine. Did you know that you are Europe's second most eligible bachelor, according to Witch Weekly?"

Krum nodded. "I have to take photographs for calendar. Very annoying, but good publicity, so I say yes."

"So you're just going to keep up appearances? For forever?"

"Von cannot play Quidditch very long. Most get injured and retire in 10 years. But I love to play, so vor me it is OK to vait."

Victor was hardly a thrilling conversationalist, but it turned out that he shared Hermione's love for Arithmancy and Theory of Magic and was more than happy to discuss both for hours on end. Unlike Hogwarts, Durmstrang took a neutral stance on Dark Arts education, so examining Krum's old textbooks proved very instructive for Hermione, who, up to that point, had steadfastly refused to so much as glance at anything considered "dark" for fear of contamination.

At first she had avoided it on principle, telling Victor that a tolerant attitude towards Dark Magic was the reason Grindelwald had risen to power so easily.

"You forget that he lived here for many years," Victor had replied.

"But he was already evil when he came!"

"That may be true, but it vas not because of Durmstrang. My family vas educated there for generations and they all opposed him."

"But I just don't think it's a good idea to teach magic like that to children! They start thinking it's OK to use it!"

"And ven they are faced vith You-Know-Who, they vill need to know! Britain has not taught dark magic for centuries but it has bred the most Dark wizards of all countries. And it is because the regular people don't know how to defend themselves!"

She'd never considered that before. In fact, it was that conversation that would later inspire Hermione to organize the D.A. and even imitate the Dark Mark with her charmed coins. She considered herself to have matured greatly since that point, having now come to understand that there was neither good nor evil knowledge, but only the purpose towards which it was used. And her purpose, obviously, was always righteous.

She continued her letter.

Last time you wrote, you asked me if there was a witch in my life, and there is. Sort of. We spend a lot of time together and we've become quite close since the beginning of term. At first, I though she reciprocated my feelings, but yesterday I finally admitted that I've been deluding myself.

She cornered me after Herbology and asked me to help her get a date with Harry. She even asked me if she should kiss him! And I was shocked, if you can believe it. Of course I had to tell her to just go for it, be herself, whatever. Now, I just feel like a colossal idiot. I know you hate when I say this, but I keep wishing I'll wake up in the morning and just miraculously be normal again.

Normal. That brought back its own slew of memories. Memories of getting rat arsed with Victor after the Yule ball. Losing her shoes in the Great Lake trying to swim to the Durmstrang ship. Trudging back to castle at dawn - soaking wet, stinking of fish, and covered in kelp - only to be caught by a thoroughly amused Albus Dumbledore and offered a Sherbert Lemon.

Worst of all, she'd drunkenly propositioned Victor, having been convinced at the time that she could make herself "normal" though sheer force of will alone. Unfortunately, he was not receptive to her carefully-argued five-point disquisition on the subject and she responded by vomiting on his dress-robes. It was one of the most embarrassing nights of her short life.

Hermione finished writing and stuffed the long scroll into an envelope, together with an interesting article about the magical properties of different broom wood from Transfiguration Today. Harry had gone to bed early and Ron was desperately trying to cajole her into writing one of his essays, so she figured now was as good a time as any to post the letter.

Evening had fallen and the halls of Hogwarts stood empty. She took the North corridor, where a massive dung bomb explosion had blown out the windows a few days ago, which Filch seemingly hadn't gotten around to fixing yet. The Weasley twins were the likely culprits, but of course no one, including Hermione, could prove it. Rain guttered in through the broken glass, drenching the floor boards and seeping into her socks.

Eventually, she passed a couple of Hufflepuffs locked in an amorous embrace behind the statue of Lachlan the Lanky, but couldn't even summon the energy to deduct house points.

Leaving them to it, Hermione made her way down the corridor. She'd just turned the corner, when a familiar voice stopped her dead in her tracks.

"Miss Granger."

Snape. Well, if it wasn't her lucky day.

"Good evening, Professor." She'd been on the verge of nattering at him nervously, but she took one look at his face and shut her mouth. He was deathly pale, and seemed decidedly more vampiric than usual.

"Sir? Are you...alright?"

Snape's eyes narrowed to tiny slits, and he descended upon her. "Don't be impertinent, Granger,' he snapped, studying her face with suspicion. "What are you doing here? Where are you going?"

"I, um… well, I'd like to send a letter. And it's before curfew, professor."

"I see. So you're not planning to run off on some reckless escapade with your half-witted compatriots tonight? Because, if you are, Miss Granger, I can assure you that this time neither the Headmaster nor your Head of House will be able to shield you from the full brunt of the consequences."

"We're not going to do anything, Professor," Hermione ground out, fighting down irritation at his casual insults.

Looming over the much-smaller Hermione, Snape drew closer, forcing her back against the wall. If he was trying to intimidate her, it was certainly working.

"See that you don't. The Headmaster assures me that you are the brains behind the so-called Golden Trio, and, if so, I will consider you to be personally responsible if Potter gets himself killed through sheer stupidity. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes sir," Hermione said through gritted teeth. Snape usually behaved as little more than a petty tyrant, but this outburst was extreme, even for him. He was clearly having a bad day. Maybe someone had put a GreaseHead potion in his pumpkin juice again.

"Now, off with you, Miss Granger. And five points from Gryffindor."

With that, he twirled on his axis and stormed off in a flurry of billowing robes, leaving Hermione staring after him, mouth agape.

Shaking her head at the gall of the man, Hermione decided to go to Owlery anyway.

As she drew closer to the top floor of the tower, she heard muted voices and stopped, listening hard to the barely-audible conversation above.

"...come on, Draco, what's taking you so long? I promised to meet up with Daphne in like 10 minutes."

"Just hold on, alright? I need to finish this letter."

"Why's it so important to send it tonight anyways? Can't it wait until after the party? Potter and the Twin Ginger Numbsculls don't get banned from Quidditch for life everyday, you know. And I heard Zabini got ahold of some Firewhiskey, you don't want to miss that."

"Oh, grow up, Pansy! I don't give a damn about the party! That insufferable cow Umbridge has me wasting time reading people's mail when I'm supposed to be keeping track of Dumbledore for Father! I need to send a report every night, and your constant whining really isn't helping!"

There was a long pause.

"Don't be such a git, Draco, I'm just trying to cheer you up a little."

"Well you can't. You want to know why? Because everything's gone to shit. He's taken over the Manor, He's watching Father's every move, waiting for him to slip up so He can punish him. Mother's too terrified to leave her room, keeps sending me letters trying to convince me to transfer to Durmstrang. And I can't do anything for them! I can't even manage to send one lousy note every day like I'm supposed to!"

"Everything will turn out for the best, Draco. And when it does, He will be grateful for all the work you did and reward you, OK?"

"Yeah, I guess. Listen, I don't think I can come with you tonight. I need to stake out Dumbledore's office and owl Father immediately if he leaves."

"Why tonight?"

"I don't know, there's some big international delegation going to Azkaban tonight, and you know Father just got appointed to the Advisory Board. Might be about that."

At this statement, Hermione drew a sharp breath. Silence followed.

"Did you hear that?" Pansy whispered.

Her companion didn't respond, but Hermione could just make out the sound of muffled footsteps.

On no! They're coming!

At first, she panicked, but soon enough remembered that it was only Malfoy and Parkinson. Not exactly the world's premier duelists, either of them.

Malfoy rounded the stair to the Owlery, wand drawn. "Who's there? Show yourself!"

Yeah right, ferret boy, Hermione thought snidely. She was completely obscured by shadow in her little alcove. Malfoy passed right by her, completely oblivious, and found himself on the receiving end of a mild Stunner.

Immediately, a flash of blue filled the air as a spell shot into Hermione's hiding place, shattering the stonework above her head.

"Potter? I know it's you, you rotten, eavesdropping little newt!" Parkinson shrieked.

The Slytherin witch volleyed a round of hexes at her hidden target, all of which were deflected by a strong Protego.

Hermione was (literally) backed into a corner. She couldn't keep her shield up forever, and soon Malfoy would wake up and she would be outnumbered. Thinking back to her sessions with Tonks and all she had learned, Hermione knew she would have to leave her hiding spot and go on the offense.

"Wrong as ever, Parkinson," she taunted, emerging from the shadows. "Which doesn't surprise me, considering you only avoid being at the bottom of the class because Crabbe and Goyle are such stiff competition." It was baiting, pure and simple, but Hermione knew that the other witch had a short temper and could get very reckless.

"Watch it, you little Mudbloo-"

But a lighting-quick Petrificus Totalus silenced her-mid sentence. Pansy fell on her side, stiff as a board; only her eyes followed Hermione's movements, dark with blame and contempt.

"Sorry," Hermione muttered. This war had given such sinister overtones to what should, by rights, have been just childish rivalries. But there was no time to dwell on that now. She Stunned Pansy, and Obliviated both her and Malfoy.

"Accio letter," she called, and a note wriggled free from the blond boy's satchel and into Hermione's waiting palm.

She open the scroll and read the single line of text: He's still here. Will send word if anything changes.

The fragments of a hasty plan began to come together in her mind - perhaps her most insanely reckless plan yet.

Professor Snape's words came back to her. It was almost as though he had foreseen what would happen tonight. How much did he know about Lucius Malfoy's schemes, or Draco's role in them? How much did Dumbledore know? Harry, who was endlessly insisting that Malfoy Jr. was up to no good, would gloat for days over this news.

Ascending the stairs to the Owlery, Hermione selected a couple of birds and sent both letters, but not before placing a tracking charm on the owl heading to meet Lucius Malfoy.

There wasn't a second to waste. She had to be on the grounds ready to follow that trace to its source before she missed her chance.

Passing the prone forms of her Slytherin classmates, Hermione took out a confiscated dung bomb from her book-bag and, with an apologetic wince, sent it flying into the wall, where it exploded in a shower of stone-dust and foul-smiling gas. There. A plausible cover for finding yourself unconscious on the Owlery steps.

Half an hour later, she stood by the gates, anxiously poring over a map of Scotland.

The minutes seemed to drag on as a tiny dot on the map moved resolutely south. Before she knew it, an hour had passed, and the dot seemed to be zeroing on its target: London.

She Apparated to an alley near Grimmauld Place, just to be closer, but didn't have to wait long to realize that the owl was making its way towards Whitehall. It was heading to the Ministry.

This time you won't let yourself get caught, she told herself fiercely. Because no one will be around to help you if you do!


	10. The Eye-Collector

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* * *

Unlike her previous visits, this time the Atrium was full of people.

It was a dizzying sight. There was an extraordinary variety of color and garb, many elaborately-styled beards, and some of the most absurd hats she'd ever seen. A true convention of wizards, in all their eccentricities.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Please be prepared to present your wands and papers for inspection. The line begins here!" the harassed-looking watchwizard shouted over the din of conversation. A group of neatly-uniformed house elves stepped forward, repeating his message in a dozen different languages.

Behind the watch-wizard's desk stood a group of Ministry officials, warily scanning the crowd. Hermione spotted Tonks among them, and guessed that they were Aurors assigned to prevent security-breaches tonight.

Breaches like the one she was currently plotting.

Herded by the house elves, the wizards and witches slowly began to form a queue. Hermione watched them anxiously, wondering how she would possibly make it past the checkpoint without being noticed.

Pretending to be a foreign dignitary was out of the question. This plan was supposed to have involved Polyjuice, but it was now impossible to get one of the candidates alone.

She skirted the edges of the crowd, invisible, looking for an easy target or an unguarded entry point. There were none.

Just then, she heard it: the unmistakable, self-important drone of Percy Weasley. He was standing in the corner with a clipboard, bestowing his wisdom upon a small crowd of bureaucrats.

"As I was saying to the Minister, this summit is the biggest step forward in international cooperation of the last century, at least! Arranging the proper paperwork with the Wizengamot was certainly a trial, but fortunately I had the foresight to start months ago-"

This pronouncement was met with a chorus of "Certainly!"s and "Absolutely!"s. Percy's audience seemed to be a group of young Ministry hopefuls, apparently starstruck by his fancy new title (written for all to see on a gilded name-tag pinned to his chest).

 _So this is what you walked out on your family for_ , Hermione thought with a twinge of disgust.

After regaling his listeners with a few painfully dull anecdotes about the Minister, Percy excused himself. As he walked away, Hermione raised her wand under the cloak.

"Confundo," she breathed. For a long moment, he stood as though frozen in time. Then, slowly, his eyes began to glaze over.

"Come with me Percy," she whispered, taking firm grasp of his forearm and leading him away from the main hall.

"Hermione?" the redhead demanded in confusion. "What are you doing here? Where are we going?" His voice had a vague, unfocused quality.

"To your office, of course. You forgot some very important paperwork," she improvised.

Genuine horror crossed Percy's face. "NO! Not the press releases! The Minister will kill me-"

"Be quiet!" she whispered furiously, concerned that Percy, who seemed to be talking to himself, was drawing attention.

She dragged him all the way to the eighth floor men's toilets, convinced him to enter one of the cubicles, and Stunned him. Next, she plucked a few strands of hair and dropped them into her Polyjuice vial, and put on his gray work robes. In the pockets, she found a few galleons, an expensive pheasant quill, some type of guest roster, and a vial labeled "Sleekeazy's Hypogryff-Strength Hair-Gro Formula."

Less than a minute later, Percy's pale, freckled face stared back at her in the mirror. Impersonating someone else though Polyjuice always gave Hermione an uneasy feeling, as though her limbs were too loose and didn't really belong to her body. Running her clammy palms over her new features, she realized that, in a certain light, Percy looked like Ron. The thought unsettled her.

Before she left, she charmed a sign to appear on the door of the cubicle where Percy's unconscious body was hidden. "Out of Order," it read.

Hermione made her way back to the crowd and tried to look as inconspicuous as possible. All around her, the attendees were chatting in small groups, and she wondered whether she should try to strike up a conversation or just stay quiet. Just then, someone grabbed her shoulder.

"Weasley! There you are! Come along, come along." It was Fudge.

He pulled her right into the thicket and turned on her. "Alright. Tell me," the pudgy wizard demanded.

"Oh, ummm..."

"The names, boy, the names! How am I supposed to remember what to call all of these wretched blighters if you don't tell me?"

Panic seized Hermione as she realized that she - or rather, Percy - was expected to know all of these people. While scrambling for the roster in her robes, she frantically scanned the crowd for a familiar face… until her eyes settled on a pale wizard whose photo she's seen a couple of months ago. It was Fleur Delacour's father; Mrs. Weasley had pointed out his photo in the Prophet and had made some snide comment about the French.

Steering the Minister in the man's direction, Hermione whispered: "That's Auguste Delacour, French Auror. He's got two daughters, both went to Beauxbatons..."

Approaching the stern-looking wizard, Fudge grabbed his hand in a too-enthusiastic grip. "Auguste, my _dear_ chap! Such a pleasure, give my regards to your lovely daughters, will you?" he gushed.

This exchange gave Hermione a moment to pull out the guest list and tack it onto Percy's clipboard. Fortunately for her, the Junior Assistant had filled the margins with notations: what each was wearing, their various titles and accomplishments, and other miscellaneous facts.

The next wizard they approached wore a beautifully-embroidered robe and a braided beard that would have put Dumbledore to shame.

"Atul Gupta, Indian Ministry of International Affairs. Recently divorced," Hermione whispered.

"Gupta, old boy! Women, eh? Can't live with 'em, can't afford the alimony! Ha ha!" Fudge barked.

Hermione pointed out a stately-looking witch dressed entirely in black, except for a pair of golden pince-nez perched precariously on her long nose. "Fernanda Diaz, Mexican Trade Commission. Sister passed last year."

The Minister's face took on a comically mournful expression.

Gravely, he bent to kiss the witch's hand. "My dear lady, so sorry to hear about your tragic loss."

On it went, until they'd made the rounds of a at least three dozen guests, and Hermione became increasingly concerned that her potion was quickly running its course.

"Excuse me Minister, I need to use the facilities," she told him.

Distractedly, Fudge nodded his assent. Then, remembering something, he shot his assistant a meaningful look. "Weasley... did you get it?"

"Sir?" Hermione asked, confused.

" _IT..._ my _special_ potion?"

 _Ohhhh_ , Hermione realized, staring at the Minister's balding head, now partially hidden by his lime-green bowler hat. _And now we know who the Hypogryff-Strength Hair-Gro is for._

"Of yes, of course, Minister," she replied, fighting hard to keep the amusement from her voice.

Making her way to a secluded corner, Hermione surreptitiously took out the polyjuice bottle. She sipped as she pretended to study the pamphlets laid out on one of the side tables: _Gilderoy Lockhart's Guide to British Wizarding Customs_ , _Spattergroit: Read the Early Warning Signs!_ , and _The Quibbler's Top Ten Places to Spot a Crumple-Horned Snorkack_.

"Percy!" called a familiar voice.

Turning around, Hermione saw that it was Tonks, looking very much unlike her usual self with her tied-back black hair and Ministry robes. Had it really been months since they'd spoken last? Unfortunately, she was still lovely.

"Hello, Auror Tonks," she said stiffly, unsure whether Percy and the witch were on good terms.

"Just Tonks is fine," the witch snapped, eyes roving over her with disapproval. "Where is your Pendant?"

"I … don't have one." At least, she was reasonably sure she didn't.

"Yes, I can see that." Digging through her bag, Tonks pulled out a large silver medallion on a thick sash. It was stamped with the Ministry seal and seemed to glow faintly. "Here. Put this on. We don't want a Dementor to corner you for a snog, hmm?"

The Auror passed over the Pendant, and with one last contemptuous look, turned on her heel and walked off. Hermione barely caught the witch's parting words.

"Well, some of us might."

Occasionally, Hermione had imagined what another meeting with Tonks would be like. Would she be able to disguise her crushing disappointment? Carry on as though nothing had ever happened - and really, nothing had - giggling over some new gossip, lending a sympathetic ear as the Auror recounted her turbulent relationship with Remus Lupin? It hardly mattered now.

She put the medal on. It shimmered faintly against the drab wool of her robes, and released a cool wave of energy, as though she'd been wrapped up in a passing breeze. It was an odd sensation, not altogether unlike the oozing magic of the Disillusionment charm. But instead of invisibility, she was overtaken by a feeling of extreme tranquility, as though her emotions had receded into a deep mist where she could see them floating lazily by, but couldn't reach out and grasp ahold of them.

The watch wizard, voice hoarse with barely-controlled irritation, was shouting for everyone to gather around for their Portkey assignments. After presenting her wand for identification, Hermione was informed that she would be travelling with Boot Group, which, given the Ministry's characteristic humorlessness, turned out to be a pack of wizards gathered around an old leather gardening boot gradually losing grips on its sole.

As the most senior Ministry official in Boot Group, Hermione was responsible for re-checking everyone's paperwork and informing them of the code of conduct expected of Azkaban visitors… all of which she did with gleeful officiousness, in an effort to stay in character. She could tell that her charges already despised her, which was all the better since she'd soon have to foist them on one of Percy's unfortunate colleagues.

When they fell out the old boot's vortex, the cold, hard ground climbed up to meet them. The biting smell of the sea was overwhelming, and when Hermione rose she could see that they had landed upon a desolate coast, barren except for a rare stunted shrub. The wind seemed to blow right through her cloak, freezing her down to the core and leaving its salty traces on her hands and face.

Around them, groups of wizards and witches were tumbling out of the sky, picking themselves up and making their way to the pier in the distance. As she neared the water, she noticed that dozens of small wooden boats were docked, waiting for them, buoyed precariously by the moonlit waves.

All along the quay, they lined up, two groups to a boat, waiting. The white mist lay low and heavy, and the ashen faces of her fellow-travelers seemed to float in it, not quite corporeal. Hermione couldn't help but imagine that these were all lost souls, waiting patiently for the ferryman to take them to Hell.

"Well if it isn't Weasley," a familiar voice jarred her from these thoughts. "Junior Assistant to the Minister of Magic himself!" He said it as if Percy's official title was Glorified Errand Boy and Arse-Wiper.

"Mr. Yaxley."

"Looks like we'll be shipmates tonight," the wizard observed. "You've got the left boot, and I've got the right, see?" He was holding out the twin to her own pitiful Portkey.

Not knowing what else to do, Hermione took the boot from him and stared at the pair in irritation. "So it seems," she huffed.

They boarded. Everyone kept silent as the little launch took off across the water, guided along its unseen route by magic. The black tumultuous sea spread out in every direction, and, while it merely rocked them now, it could have easily swallowed them up. Hermione watched its rhythmic chaos, and tried to let it lull her.

"You know, I've heard that a bloke falls into these waters, he'll freeze to death before he's even got time to scream," Yaxley remarked ominously. "Nothing survives out here."

"Fascinating," Hermione snapped, infusing her tone with as much disgust as she could muster to discourage the man from speaking to her.

"Ain't it?"

Oblivious to her disinterest, Yaxley told her the story of the first delegation to ever travel to what would later become Azkaban. Several Ministry officials escorting about a dozen criminals were lost at sea, rumoured to have become the prey of the Colossal Squid which haunted these waters. So terrible were their deaths that their souls could find no peace, and remained trapped on this plane, fruitlessly searching the dark water for their human bodies, for decades. Folklore had it that these were the first Dementors.

"Do you really believe that?" Hermione asked, having been unwittingly drawn into the wizard's tale. None of this was mentioned in any book on magical beings that she'd ever read.

"It's probably a load of codswallop," he chuckled. "Makes a great bedtime story though, doesn't it? But look! There she is!"

Following the wizard's gaze, Hermione caught her first sigh of Azkaban prison. Massive and unyielding, it was an enormous obelisk rising from the violent sea to touch the clouds, where shadowy creatures circled its peak.

"She's a beauty, eh? Takes only a hundred Dementors to keep the whole fortress in line. Now if that's not enough to impress these foreign twits, I don't know what is," Yaxley whispered conspiratorially, shooting a glance at the twits in question, all of whom were transfixed by the sight before them. But it wasn't awe or admiration upon their faces, Hermione noticed. It was dread.

After disembarking, Hermione took Boot Group to the foot of the grand staircase leading up to the tower. The entire journey was eerily reminiscent of her arrival at Hogwarts as a first year, but in this bad horror-movie version, Hogwarts was a torture-chamber and the Professors were soul-sucking monsters.

She looked on as Fudge posed for a couple of photos before launching into a speech about brotherhood and cooperation. Everyone's eyes were on the podium. It was now or never.

Sidling up to her erstwhile companion, she put on her bossiest demeanor, and said: "Yaxley, there is an urgent matter that requires my attention. I need you to take over my group."

"What?!" the wizard blurted ."On no, you don't, you little ginger bastard! You think that just because -"

"I'm sure," she cut him off loudly, "that the Minister would be so very disappointed to hear that you're not the _team player_ Lucius Malfoy seems to think you are."

Yaxley's eyes widened. "What do you know about that?" he demanded menacingly.

Hermione smirked."I shan't be more than an hour. You'll hardly notice I'm gone." Giving his shoulder one last condescending pat, she wandered into the crowd until the furious wizard lost sight of her.

Spotting a young guard standing alone by one of the side-doors, Hermione approached him. "I'm Percy Weasley, Junior Assistant to the Minister of Magic," she introduced herself. "I need to check the premises to make sure that everything is in order for our guests."

The boy seemed confused and uncertain. "I, uhh...I'm not supposed to…" he stuttered, eyeing her Ministry badge with apprehension.

"Look, if anything goes wrong tonight, it's both our necks on the line. Is that what you want?" Hermione snapped, looming threateningly over the guard as Snape had done to her hours earlier. Between the Potions Master, Umbridge, and Malfoys Jr. and Sr., Hermione had a rich bouquet of inspiration to draw from when it came to acting like a power-hungry, pompous git.

"No, sir," the boy replied earnestly, shaking his head for emphasis. "I just started last month."

"Good. There's a few things I need to examine. We can start with the high-security ward."

The guard (named Perkins) led her up a flight of stairs and down a dimly-lit corridor, to the foot of another staircase, which spiraled high up into obscurity. "It's a bit of a trek," he told her apologetically.

As they climbed, an announcement came on the loudspeaker. " _Welcome to Azkaban Prison, the world's premier magical detention facility,"_ the soothing, mechanical female voice declared. " _Remember to follow the simple guidelines in your Visitor's Pamphlet to ensure that your visit is safe and educational."_

"That sounds exactly like the voice in the phone box at the Ministry," Hermione said to no one in particular.

"Does it? Don't think I've noticed. But then, I haven't been out much."

Although it was probably better not to engage in conversation, curiosity got the better of her. "Do you live on the premises?" she asked.

"Tha's right. We've all got to stay here year round, 'cept Christmas. Though, I hear that after a few months, nobody even wants to leave anymore."

"Really?" Hermione asked, glancing at their bleak surroundings in disbelief.

"It's the Pendants. They keep you feelin' calm and easy while you're here, but once you're back in the Civs, you take it off, and everything comes crashing back."

"The Civs?"

"That's what we call the mainland here. You know, the rest of the wizarding world."

"I see."

"My bunkmate took a day off to visit his mum last week: came running back cryin' in a couple hours' time. Couldn't take it."

Hermione was saved from having to respond to that disturbing pronouncement by the automated voice overhead.

" _All visitors must keep their Ministry-issued Pendants on their person at all times."_

Perkins chuckled at that. "You know, usually she's just tellin' us if it's beef slop or chicken slop for lunch that day. Didn't think she could say much else."

" _Visitors must remain with their appointed tour-leaders for the duration of their visit. Anyone who fails to comply with this requirement will be subject to arrest and detention."_

"Is it much further?" Hermione asked, trying to hide her impatience. She only had one more dose of Polyjuice and it had to last her until they got back to the Ministry.

"Nah, it's on the next floor, but we've got to walk round the Well first. That's what we call Minimum Security."

In a minute, Hermione realized why. The Well was a cylindrical hollow in the middle of Azkaban's main tower. It was ringed by cells and stretched so far down that the bottom was entirely enveloped in darkness. Far below, she could see Dementors gliding from cell to cell, no doubt looking to sate their hunger.

"Don't worry," Perkins reassured. "Just keep that medal on you and the Scabs won't ever know you're there."

Surmising that "Scabs" were Dementors, Hermione nodded and said nothing.

" _Visitors are advised that giving food or water to prisoners is strictly forbidden,"_ the automated voice informed unhelpfully.

"Here we are," Perkins said as they neared a set of enormous barred doors. "Supermax. This is where we keep the worst of 'em. Killers and Death Eaters."

He tapped his wand on the complicated set of knots in the ironwork, and slowly, the doors creaked open. Hermione didn't know what she'd been expecting - a torture chamber, maybe - but the room which greeted her was pristine and well-lit. Halls stretched out on either side, lined with little doors, each marked with a painted number. On the wall across, she noticed a rack hung with dozens of black hoods.

"Perkins. You seem like an upstanding fellow," Hermione said. Laying it on a bit thick, sure, but definitely the sort of thing Percy would try. "I need you to help me check on the prisoners. Make sure that they're all going to behave themselves when the Minister's guests come through here. Do you think you could do that?"

"Oh! Yes, sir. Absolutely!" the boy trilled.

"Excellent. You can take these cells on the left, and I'll take those on the right. Meet me back here when you're finished."

They walked in opposite directions; but, while Perkins diligently stopped at every door, Hermione was only interested in one. A moment later, she was standing in front of it. Number 49.

She tried the handle. It was locked.

" _Alohomora_ ," Hermione whispered, feeling the spell flow lethargically from Percy's unfamiliar wand. The answering click of the sliding bolt seemed unnaturally loud.

The room beyond was dim, and for a moment Hermione thought that she'd made a mistake, had stumbled upon an empty cell. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a twitching form.

"Are...are you Judith Mintumble?" she asked, unable to keep the quaver from her voice. If it was fear or excitement, she couldn't say.

The figure seemed to curl in on itself even more.

"Can you hear me?" Hermione said, louder now. Approaching, she reached out her hand and laid it on what she assumed was the woman's shoulder.

Her skin had hardly made contact with the coarse wool when a vise grip clamped around her wrist and a sudden, sharp pain seized her hand.

Shocked, Hermione wrenched it away. She looked at it and saw a little crescent imprinted between her thumb and forefinger. Teeth marks.

The woman had bitten her.

She looked on numbly as the figure - and it was indeed a woman - rose and approached. Drawing near to Hermione, she sniffed the air, turning her head as if to catch the scent on the breeze.

Bars of light from the window fell on the woman's face, and Hermione could see that her eyes were glossy and white.

"You're blind…" she whispered in horror.

The woman didn't seem to hear her. "How long have I been here?" she croaked with obvious effort. Her white hair framed her face in matted pelts and the smell of stale urine was unmistakable.

Shame and disgust washed over Hermione, and she struggled to speak.

"Almost forty years," she forced out, at last. The words felt obscene on her tongue.

The woman nodded jerkily and turned her back on Hermione, walking towards the wall where a single window up high let in a steady drizzle of rain. It dripped down the grooves in the stone, slowly growing the puddle beneath. She wondered if that puddle had been there for forty years too.

"Longer, I bet," the woman muttered.

Hermione drew a sharp breath. Had she said that out loud?

Shaking off the thought, she continued: "I need to ask you some questions. About your research."

The woman's head jerked sideways. "Who sent you? Rockwood? The Minister?" she demanded.

"No. I'm...not from the Ministry, I-"

Hermione stopped, unsure how to explain.

"I'm from Hogwarts," she said at last, "I'm writing a book about your mother."

"Mother? Mother's been dead a long time. Best leave her that way."

She took the opening.

"I don't really understand how… how she died. I read that her body deteriorated, but -"

"Don't believe the propaganda. That's just what they want you to think."

The woman paused, staring over Hermione's shoulder as though she'd caught sight of something in the distance.

"They had her up at St. Mungo's for a year, doing Merlin knows what to her. In the end, she killed herself."

Hermione gasped. "My god, that's awful."

"It happened on my eighteenth birthday," Judith explained bitterly. "Nobody came to tell us. We had to read about it in the Prophet. Things were... never the same after that."

She grew silent as Hermione's thoughts rushed with sudden understanding. "That's why…"she muttered, more to herself than anything. "That's why you went back… you were trying... you wanted to -"

 _Bring her back,_ she thought, but couldn't say.

"Maybe. Maybe in the beginning. But things don't work that way, you know."

"What do you mean?"

"The hourglass - it's got two parts. Because there has to balance in everything."

"Balance?"

Judith nodded. "It took me my whole career to understand that. But all this is ancient history. Better left forgotten."

On the verge of demanding a better explanation, Hermione was stopped short by a scream in the distance. It rose to a shrill peak, wavered, and died.

In a moment, another scream rose up, but it seemed to be coming from another direction. The air grew palpably colder.

"They're coming," Judith rasped. "Oh no, no, no, _no_ …not again…"

She shrunk back into her corner, and wrapped in on herself as though trying to disappear.

"They won't come in here, I've got a pendant. Please, I have more questions..."

But Judith wasn't listening. She rocked herself frantically, muttering: "Go away, go away... go away… "

The echoing sound of footsteps approached and faded, and Hermione realized at that moment that she couldn't be caught in here.

With one last look at the witch in whom she'd placed all her hopes, Hermione left the cell.

The _click_ of the door closing behind her broke the silence in the corridor. Mist seemed to have crept in from the outside, blanketing the stone walkway so that Hermione couldn't make out the tips of her boots. Judith was right: Dementors were certainly near. She wondered if she should leave.

" _If you are confronted by a Dementor, please remain calm and wait for assistance from Ministry personnel,"_ the loudspeaker droned.

The screaming had started up again and more and more prisoners seemed to be joining in, like a chorus of demented feral cats. Hermione had no idea what the hell was going on, but she was acutely regretting having come.

Up the corridor, a door burst open. Two figures emerged.

Hermione realized their robes were Azkaban guard uniforms, but they didn't noticed her, too focused on dragging something from the room they'd just left.

At first she'd thought it was a sack of some kind. Then she realized it was a body. A body with a black hood over its head.

They had it hoisted up by the arms, half-carrying, half-pulling it along as its feet bounced clumsily on the stone.

She couldn't say what it was - fear, concern, or morbid fascination - that carried her feet forward, but before she knew it, she was following them. The guards rounded a corner, and when Hermione caught up with them she saw that beyond the corridor was some type of strange chamber pitted with holes in the ground.

The older guard took out his wand and began a series of incantations, while the younger tried to fit wrist and ankle shackles on the body. Hermione saw it struggle and with great relief, realized that it was still alive.

"Don't waste your time, McDowell, just put her out," the older guard instructed.

But his colleague wasn't quick enough, and the prisoner managed to wrench free of his grasp. With a strange manic agility, it leapt up on his back, and dug its clawed fingers into his eye sockets.

"Aaaaah!" the guard screamed, "ger' off!"

A red jet blasted the prisoner across the floor and, like a frightened animal, it scuttled away on all fours before another Stupefy knocked it cold. The black hood had got lost in the scuffle, but Hermione couldn't see the prisoner's face amidst the enormous mass of tattered hair.

"Morgana deliver us from rookies," the older guard groused, coming over to help his fallen comrade.

"Sorry, sir. I didn't know she was gonna do that," McDowell said, shamefaced.

"Well now you know why they call her the Eye Collector. Next time just use a body-bind, eh?"

"Absolutely," the younger guard agreed enthusiastically. "So what happens next?"

"Well, we put the cuffs on and chuck 'er in the Hole. Maybe an hour or two to wear her out. So she won't make a fuss when the visitors arrive."

"But…"McDowell hesitated, looking at the crumpled figure, "Isn't that a bit... won't the Scabs, you know, get her soul if they've got a whole hour?"

"Oh no, they don't get close enough for that. They just sort of...feed. Why don't you cuff her, and I'll open the ports, eh?"

Still looking quite dubious, the younger guard summoned the four-tailed shackles and magicked them on the prisoner while his companion set to work opening a skylight in the ceiling. Beyond, Hermione caught a glimpse of a shadow obscuring the moon. They were already up there. Waiting.

"We have to bring the troublemakers out here once in a while to keep em' docile," the senior guard explained. "But 93 here gets a weekly playdate. Ain't that right?"

Having regained consciousness, 93 answered him with a growl.

"Go on then, you know what to do," he directed, pointing to the nearest pit.

Just like that, all the fight seemed to go out of her. She started to crawl toward the hole, her movements small and jerky. A dessicated hand reached for her from above, hungrily grasping the air, as though trying to fish the last cookie from the jar.

The prisoner reached the lip of the pit, and was about to pitch herself into it when Hermione finally lost control of her better sense.

"STOP! Stop this instant!" Hermione shouted, storming forth from her hiding place and descending upon the flabbergasted guards with a look of such fury it could have incinerated them on the spot. "What exactly do you think you're doing here?"

Of course, a pair of wands were at her throat in a heartbeat, but Hermione remained unphased. Her righteous anger was overwhelming.

"And who the bloody hell are _you_?" the older guard demanded.

"Percy Weasley. Junior Assistant to the Minister of Magic. Is _this_ ," she pointed at the cowering prisoner, "what you want our delegates to see tonight? What kind of ship are you running here?"

The answering glare was positively arctic. Recalling what Perkins had said about the long-term effects of the pendants, Hermione realized that all the guards here seemed to have one thing in common. Dead eyes.

"It's standard protocol," the guard declared, defensive. "This is how we prepare the prisoners for inspection."

"Well not today, you don't!"

"I'm afraid it's the only thing that works to keep them quiet, short of Stunning them. And this one tends to recover quickly."

Looking down, Hermione noticed that the woman was breathing hard. It could have been anger or fear; she couldn't tell because the prisoner hid her face behind her ratty mane.

"I have medical training," she lied. "I will take responsibility for sedating her."

The older guard seemed to consider, and then agreed to let Hermione have her way in a tone that suggested he wanted to wash his hands of the entire mess.

"We have foreign officials here, you understand. We need to make a good showing," she offered by way of explanation.

"Right on. National reputation and all that," McDowell chimed in.

Hermione refused to let the prisoner be dragged, insisting that they levitate her all the way to her cell. At the door marked 93, the older guard left them, saying he needed to finish his rounds and asking McDowell to escort " Mr. Weasley" downstairs.

"Perkins was helping me make sure everything was in order," Hermione called as he was walking away, having remembered her hapless guide. "Please tell him that the Ministry is grateful for his assistance."

"All this is a bit new to me," McDowell admitted when they were alone. He sounded almost ashamed.

"There seem to be a lot of new recruits around here," she observed.

"Yeah. The new Advisory Board sacked a bunch of people last month. Apparently there was some kind of black market going on between the guards and the prisoners."

Her interest was piqued at the words "Advisory Board". She noticed that the prisoner had also turned her head to listen.

It was only at that moment that Hermione got a proper look at her: it was the woman from the painting in Grimmauld Place. The one Sirius thought had been born without a soul.

She gaped at the woman while the guard opened the cell and ushered her inside. Her mouth felt ashen and the hairs on her arms stood on end, as though a ghost had just walked through her.

"Wait outside, please," she said at last. "I need to examine her injuries."

The guard shrugged and backed out of the door, leaving it open by a hair, "just in case".

Dazed, Hermione looked at the woman sitting before her on the floor, still chained, still hiding behind her hair. She was nothing like the proud pureblood heiress in the painting, but a cowed, jittery animal.

"Are you being tortured?" Hermione whispered.

The woman licked her lips nervously, and continued her careful examination of Percy's boots.

"They just take me to the Hole," she muttered tonelessly. "Sometimes I'm there for days."

Unsure how to respond, Hermione instead took out Percy's wand and cast a few simple diagnostic spells on the other woman. She was no Mediwitch, but she'd picked up enough from the library to get by (and by anyone's standards, it was really quite a lot).

Carefully healing a few fractured ribs and a minor head wound (likely side-effects of the earlier Stunner) Hermione noticed that the woman was absolutely skeletal and seemed to have a perpetual tremor in her hands.

She could have cried right then - the pity and anger and helplessness were _so_ overwhelming - and probably would have, were it not for the the magic of the pendant weighing on her emotions like a heavy blanket. But there wasn't anything she could do, was there? Neither for this woman, nor for Judith.

Perhaps having sensed her despair, the prisoner finally looked up at Hermione. Her eyes turned round with surprise, and she reached her hand out and gently fingered one of her long brown curls.

Wait, her _curls_? How could she not have noticed herself transform back? My god, what if the guard walked on in them like this?

For an impossibly long moment they were frozen - looking at each other as though the other's gaze contained some deeper truth - and then the spell was broken, and Hermione pulled away.

She stumbled back, filled with an inexplicable urge to run, but the prisoner didn't let her go. Kneeling now, she clenched at Hermione's robe and pleaded: "Take me with you!"

"That's crazy! I - I can't -" Hermione stuttered, shocked at the request.

"Please, I can't go on like this. If you won't take me, then kill me," the woman went on vehemently, and though the idea was insanity, her tone was deadly serious.

Hermione shook her head. "I...I have to go."

Carefully, she pried the woman's clammy hands off of her cloak, watching her draw back upon herself, face a mask of absolute despair.

She didn't know what made her do it. Maybe it was this madhouse she'd wandered into. Maybe it was that she, herself, had finally lost the plot.

But Hermione found herself lifting the pendant off her neck and pressing it into the prisoner's shaking fingers. "Take this. Hide it from everybody. It will keep the Dementors away."

And without looking back, Hermione downed her final dose of Polyjuice, and left the cell behind.


	11. Christmas

Again, thanks for the wonderful reviews. They really motivate me to keep working on this story :)

The end of this chapter deals with events directly out of OOtP (Ch.23) *insert usual disclaimer*

* * *

At 6 am on the dot, the wake-up call went out over the loudspeaker.

"Prisoner 93 is requested in Interrogation. Again, Prisoner 93 is requested in Interrogation immediately," the mechanical voice droned.

Bellatrix rolled off her cot, landing on the floor with a grunt; she had barely a moment to lace up her trainers before her door was unceremoniously shoved open. In stalked her favorite guards, Tweedledum and Tweedledumber.

"Miss us, 93?" the blonde one mocked as Bellatrix assumed the required position so they could search and shackle her.

Before she could respond, the hood was over her head, the latch too tight around her neck again so it was hard to breathe.

"Fuck you," she rasped, the words muffled through a mouthful of thick wool. It still smelled like vomit from the last time she'd been sick while wearing it.

"Did you hear something?" one guard joked with the other. "No? Must have been the rats."

The walk down to Interrogation was the worst, no matter how many times she made it. It was the waiting and the anticipation that got her. Although last time, she'd been allowed a bath afterwards - well, a bucket and a rag, but who could afford those fine distinctions here?

Stairs, corridors, more stairs, a courtyard… her feet tread the familiar route again, and she knew they'd arrived before she even caught a whiff of the antiseptic of which Interrogation always reeked.

"Over here," an unfamiliar voice directed, and to her surprise, she found herself sitting in a chair, cuffed only by a single wrist to the armrest.

Somebody took off her hood and, looking around, she realized she wasn't in the usual room. Across the table from her, a black-haired wizard sat, examining her like she was some grotesque (but fascinating) medical specimen. Delicately, he reached into his robes, pulled out a handkerchief and held it to his face for just a moment.

Bellatrix looked away, scowling. She knew she smelled like shit. He didn't need to throw it in her face.

"Madame Lestrange," the wizard began tentatively, "Do you know who I am?"

The words "another Ministry halfwit" were already on the tip of her tongue when she realized he'd used her official title. Well then. It seemed there were politics afoot.

She gave him a considering look. "No."

"My name is Pius Thicknesse. We were in the same year at Hogwarts. You were my lab partner in Potions once or twice."

Appraising him carefully, Bellatrix tried hard to summon up some shred of memory from the void her mind had become. But nothing came.

"That was a long time ago."

"Indeed. You've been here - what? Fourteen years?"

"Yes. Now make your point," she snapped.

"I'm here in my capacity as Head of Magical Law Enforcement. It has been brought to my attention that our conversations with you over the past several weeks have been…less than fruitful."

"I agree. Your brainless lackeys have failed to kill me, and not for lack of trying."

"Please, Mrs. Lestrange - "

"I have no information for you," Bellatrix cut across him, exhaustion creeping into her voice.

"She's lying," a voice from the corner interrupted.

Her blood ran cold. That voice… it still haunted her nightmares; had it really been more than a decade since she'd heard it last? He still sounded as though he was perpetually nursing a terrible hangover.

"What the hell is he doing here?" she spat, glaring at Thicknesse.

"Mr. Moody is here as my consultant," the wizard replied evenly. "He's helping me interview your former colleagues."

"And this one," the Auror said, limping slowly into her field of vision, "is the worst of the lot. Real piece of work."

Moody studied her with disgust. "You look worse than a monkey's arse, Bella. Seems like prison hasn't been kind."

"No, it hasn't. And what's your excuse, then?"

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Thicknesse quirk his lips at the exchange. He cleared his throat, breaking the silent standoff between the Auror and the Death Eater.

"As I was saying, the Ministry is prepared to reconsider certain elements of your sentence - namely, accommodations - if you demonstrate a willingness to cooperate."

"I know he's planning something," Moody burst out impatiently. "Stop wasting time and tell me what it is!"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Bellatrix sneered.

The Auror clasped her forearm painfully and, tearing her right sleeve, triumphantly revealed the Dark Mark. "Then what is _this_?"

"You know exactly what it is, you bastard," she spat.

"It's growing darker!"

"Really? I hadn't noticed." She studied her fingernails nonchalantly, but the effect was rather ruined by the fact that there was dried blood underneath them - her own.

Moody huffed in disgust and turned to the other wizard. "Why don't you give me a few minutes alone with her, Pius? I know how to deal with these people."

"That won't be necessary," Thicknesse replied crisply. "Now, Madam, is there something I can do for you - as a show of good faith? Perhaps you'd like another bath?"

She took a moment to think. "I want a newspaper. Today's Prophet."

"You're wasting your time," Moody muttered darkly as Thicknesse motioned to one of his escorts. The boy left, returning several minutes later with a rolled-up paper and another official who Bellatrix vaguely recognized.

"Sir?" The second guard called. "Your Portkey is ready to go."

When no one was looking, he threw Bellatrix a surreptitious grin and a wink. So she did know him. But from where?

"Thank you, Rowle," Thicknesse said, standing. "Please consider what I've said, Madame Lestrange."

He gave her a polite nod and followed his entourage from the room, leaving Bellatrix alone with Moody for the first time. The Auror had both eyes - the good one and the magical one - trained on her, giving the impression that he was peering directly into her mind.

"I know you, Black. You're still the arrogant, evil little cunt you were at nineteen. So don't think you can try anything."

Bellatrix raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Charming as ever, I see."

"If you're waiting for your precious Lord to waltz in here and rescue you, Black, you'll be waiting a very long time. What do you think he'll do when he realizes his little pet can hardly hold a wand anymore? See how much he values you then."

He left without another word, and Bellatrix let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. She could scarcely believe it when they took her back to her cell, not only unharmed, but with such an unexpected prize.

For a long while, she just sat there, staring at it, strangely nervous. A thought kept going round and round in her head, taunting her: _What if I've forgotten how to read?_

She certainly had a hard time remembering the incantations of even the most basic spells, not to mention names, dates, and events. Her mind was filled with shadows - the ones she chased, but could never quite get ahold of - and screaming.

It wasn't more than a fortnight ago that the fog had finally begun to clear. For years her tortured mind had conjured only demons and monsters, but that night she'd dreamt up a beautiful apparition. And, inexplicably, she'd woken to find herself still clutching the gift the spirit had given her. It was the happiest day in recent memory, and best of all, no Dementors showed up to feed off of her elation. Though the gloom they spread was omnipresent, it no longer seemed to burrow into her very soul. Memories of life outside of Azkaban, troubled though it may have been, returned to her and, for the first time in years, she remembered that she was a human being.

It took her the better part of a day to read the Prophet cover-to-cover. It may have been slow going at first, but to her immense relief, Bellatrix found that basic literacy was still within her grasp. All in all, not much seemed to have changed: the Ministry was still run by incompetents, European politics still resembled a sandbox tantrum, and the Chudley Cannons were still in the bottom of the league.

Interestingly, there was a lot of talk about Harry Potter, who had apparently grown up to be an unstable, attention-hungry loon ( which, if true, didn't surprise Bellatrix at all). Dumbledore, too, seemed to be quickly succumbing to dementia. If the Dark Lord had indeed returned - and she didn't dare hope - he wasn't going to find much credible opposition.

Leaving the crossword for later, Bellatrix decided that if she survived until Thicknesse's next visit, she'd barter for a pencil. She folded the paper and carefully propped it up next to her only other possession. Prisoners were allowed a single personal item, and hers was a photo.

Deciding, she wanted to look at the Prophet from her position on the bed, she moved it to opposite wall. It was only then that she noticed the date. Picking up the photo, she studied it for the ten thousandth time. In it, three girls stood in front of Honeydukes, bundled up in their winter robes, holding armfuls of sweets and smiling.

"Merry Christmas," she whispered. "Wherever you are."

* * *

"Merry Christmas!" Ginny chirped, depositing a steaming mug of tea on Hermione's night table, knocking over a few rolls of parchment and one of Crookshanks' grubby-looking toy mice.

"Do you have to be so loud?" Hermione croaked, peeking at the redhead resentfully over the edge of her blanket.

"Of course! It's Christmas! And you've got presents!" She stood there, looking at Hermione as though expecting her to spring out of bed a-caroling.

"OK. Fine. I'm awake," Hermione groaned. "Happy?"

"Why, yes, as a matter of fact! Open this one first," she commanded, thrusting a poorly-wrapped box into Hermione's hands, "it's from my brother."

Groggily, Hermione tore off the red and gold paper and took out the little bottle inside. She stared at it for a moment with confusion before raising it to her nose.

"What is it? A cleaning solution of some kind?"

Ginny snorted. "I think it's supposed to be perfume."

"Oh." That confused her even more.

"Well, you know what that means…" the redhead trailed off suggestively.

Hermione gave her a blank look.

"Well, Mum says boys only buy perfume for girls they like."

"But that's nonsense!" Hermione declared, a hint of panic in her voice.

"Uh huh. You keep telling yourself that," Ginny chuckled. "At least it's better than the stuffed Hippogriff he gave me. Honestly, it's like they all think I'm still five years old."

"I'm sure they don't. What did you get from Harry?"

"A biography of Gwenog Jones!"

"Is that...the one from the Holyhead Harpies?"

"Ah, so when you sit there looking all bored and superior when we talk Quidditch, you're actually listening after all! "

"I admit to nothing!" Hermione proclaimed, throwing one of her pillows at Ginny, who dodged it expertly.

Laughing, the redhead bounced out of bed, put on her bathrobe and headed to the door.

"I'll go see if Mum needs help. And I better see you downstairs today. There's no sulking alone in the library allowed on Christmas!"

Hermione set to opening the rest of her presents. Aside from Ron's perfume and Mrs. Weasley's traditional sweater, the rest were books; she was especially happy with Harry's New Theory of Numerology and Victor's Magical Beings and Beasts of Transylvania.

Soon, there was nothing left but a single envelope, addressed in very familiar script. She sat there staring at it for a long time, but couldn't bring herself to open it. Snatching it up at last, she walked over to her dresser, and shoved it in the bottom drawer.

She didn't want to know what he was going to say. She'd turned down his offer to come home for the holidays with a scribbled "I can't". There would be no Christmas lights in the window this year, no snowman with the funny hat, no eggnog by the fireplace - the one her dad had always spiked with rum - there would be nothing, and Hermione could bear the thought.

There was still so much to do, piles of research to sort through, plans to make, and she wouldn't dare step foot in that house until she'd made things right.

Grabbing the quilt she'd spelled together for Kreatcher, Hermione headed downstairs, running into Ron and Harry on the way. They followed her to deliver the house elf's gift, surprised to learn that Kreacher had made the boiler room his home. Inside the dank, cave-like little closet, the elf had managed to gather together a motley assortment of trinkets, old family heirlooms, and photographs.

"Who's that?" Ron asked, pointing to a the silver-framed picture which took pride of place in Kreather's collection.

"It's Sirius's cousin," Harry informed him tersely. "Bellatrix Lestrange."

Hermione had noticed it too, silently marveling at the woman's lovely features, which time and imprisonment had turned so harsh and worn. This Bellatrix seemed even younger than in the portrait upstairs, perhaps Hermione's age.

"Bit of a looker, ain't she?" Ron blurted out, drawing a glare from both of his friends.

"She was a Death Eater, Ron," Harry snapped.

"Well, that's too bad, then," he said, looking genuinely disappointed.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Ronald," Hermione cried, "Don't you have any decency at all?"

"A bloke can look, can't he?"

 _Not at her_ , Hermione thought furiously, and then felt immediately ashamed. It hadn't been hard to deduce why the woman was in Azkaban, but Hermione had avoided asking Sirius or looking up her records, perhaps preferring denial. Her one recurring nightmare had given way to another: she would find herself in a long corridor, watching the Azkaban guards drag a body. When she caught up with them, she would snatch the hood off, sometimes finding Harry or Ron, sometimes Bellatrix, and sometimes her parents. Whoever it was, they would always be already dead.

Sleep was a rather dubious proposition these days, and consequently, she'd taken to hanging out in the kitchen at all hours of the night. Harry, who had become convinced that Voldemort was possessing him in his sleep, would often join her there for a game of cards or Gobstones. So many times, she'd been on the verge of telling him everything that had happened since June, but could never bring herself to do it. He'd changed a lot since the summer as well, had become brooding and scornful, and was too preoccupied with his own inner demons to pay anyone else's much mind.

Despite their protestations, the others still harbored some lingering doubts about the night he witnessed the snake bite Mr. Weasley, and tried a little too hard to treat him normally. Only Molly Weasley continued to dote on Harry as always, too grateful to have her husband alive to wonder about the curious circumstances of his attack.

Thus, on Christmas afternoon, they made their way to the Dai Llwellyn Ward of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, a circumstance Hermione found not altogether inconvenient. According to her research, the hospital kept extensive patient records going back as far as the 18th century, detailing all manner of obscure and unlikely diseases. All she had to do was figure out where they kept the paperwork, sneak in there, and steal Eloise Mintumble's file. With two impressive break-ins already under her belt, Hermione was feeling rather confident about it.

After a brief visit with , Harry,Hermione, and Ginny and Ron made their way to the Visitor's Tea Room, escaping Molly's tirade about Muggle medicine just in time. Hermione did feel rather offended by her blanket assumption that doctors were basically butchers, a viewpoint that Ron and Ginny seemed to share.

Lingering behind, Harry shot her an exasperated look, and she felt a surge of gratitude.

"It's like they think all Muggles are barbarians or something," she told him.

"No, I think it's just unfamiliar to them," he reasoned. "And, you have to admit, the idea of cutting and drilling and injecting people to fix them is pretty strange."

"Well, my parents are dentists, so I suppose it always seemed normal to me," Hermione replied, a touch defensive.

 _Were dentists_ , her treacherous mind supplied.

It occurred to her then that she hadn't set foot in hospital since that horrible day. Suddenly the acrid smell of antiseptic was burning in the back of her throat and the brightness reflecting off the linoleum had become unbearable.

"Hermione? You OK?" a concerned voice pierced the fog of her senses.

They were all standing there, staring at her.

"I'm fine. Sorry," she muttered, embarrassed.

Ron was shaking his head gravely. "That's what happens when you skip breakfast, Hermione. They don't call it the most important meal of the day for nothing! Don't worry, I hear the mince pies here are top notch."

Unfortunately (for Ron) they were delayed in their pursuit of said pies by the unlikely appearance of Gilderoy Lockhart. Sorry as Hermione was that the man had permanently lost his memory, she definitely wasn't sorry that he couldn't remember the cringeworthy love-letters she'd sent to him when she was fourteen. They'd even been rose-scented, she recalled with shame. He'd probably kept them too, the self-obsessed prat. Thankfully, she'd now moved on to much more attainable candidates.

 _Like Tonks and Cho Chang_ , she thought with a self-deprecating smirk.

The Permanent Spell Damage Ward where Lockhart lived was certainly much nicer than the one Mr. Weasley was in, Hermione thought, noticing the cheerful multi-color decorations and the cozy little sitting area next to the window.

"Ahem," someone cleared their throat faintly, drawing her gaze. The others looked too, but noticing nothing of interest, they soon turned away.

Hermione, however, was surprised to see two familiar faces; there, across the aisle from Lockhart, lay none other than Broderick Bode, and by his bedside, clad in a particularly bizarre Christmas sweater, sat Agatha.

The elderly which acknowledged Hermione with a subtle nod and returned to her newspaper, looking every bit the ordinary holiday visitor. But it was clear that she had an alternate purpose: was she guarding her incapacitated colleague, or, perhaps, making he sure he stayed that way?

Suddenly feeling uneasy, Hermione looked about for an excuse to leave, but before she could say anything, Ron spotted Neville, trailing miserably after his grandmother on the other end of the ward. Hermione recognized Augusta Longbottom immediately, remembering Neville's boggart with its unmistakable stuffed-vulture hat.

She was an impressive woman, with an iron handshake and the kind of old-fashioned manners that would have been less out of place in Victorian England. Hermione knew that the Longbottoms were one of the last great pureblood families, and while Augusta carried herself accordingly, Hermione was glad that Neville had not inherited that air of besieged arrogance. Instead, Neville always seemed to be on the verge of apologizing for existing at all, and today they all learned why.

 _Tortured into insanity by You Know Who's followers_ … the words bounced around her brain, nearly incomprehensible, as Ginny nudged her and gestured to a woman making her way down the aisle towards them with aching slowness. Neville's mother. Alice Longbottom. Auror extraordinaire, according to Tonks.

Now, she was just an empty shell of a human being, hollow-eyed and mute, piteously slipping a bubblegum wrapper into her son's outstretched hand. Before she withdrew, Hermione caught a glimpse of her arm, where a word had been carelessly scratched - now faded to a faint white line.

"TRAITOR", it read.

The woman returned to her bed as Neville and his grandmother made their exit, leaving a leaden silence in their wake. Ghosting over Ron and Ginny's horrified faces, Hermione's eyes finally settled on Agatha, but the witch's answering gaze was empty. Bottomless.

Harry said something about having known all along, something about Bellatrix Lestrange…

"What?" Hermione snapped, disoriented.

 _Bellatrix Lestrange. Tortured the Longbottoms into insanity._

"No."

"What do you mean, no?" Harry demanded, confused.

The dizzying blindness had returned with a vengeance, and the silence was ringing in her ears, again.

Everything had shifted, slightly off…

 _"Please, I can't go on like this. If you won't take me, then kill me..."_

The woman was screaming. Screaming her lungs hoarse. _Tell the truth, tell the truth_ , her mouth formed the words. But no sound came out...

"Have some pudding, Hermione." Ginny's worried face swam into focus. She was holding a plate in her outstretched hand.

Looking around, bewildered, Hermione saw that they were in a large dining hall, surrounded by Christmas visitors. All of a sudden, she became aware of the deafening roar of conversation.

She took the plate. Picked up her fork and took a bite. It was actually quite good - tasted like brandy and raisins.

"Don't tell mum, but this is much better than the stuff we have at the house," Ron muttered around a mouthful.

"You only say that because it's drowning in booze, Ron," Harry joked, though an undertone of tension remained in his voice.

A harassed-looking house elf arrived at their table. From Hermione's vantage, all that was visible of the little creature was the very tips of her ears.

"Your pies," the elf declared irritably, dropping a tray in front of Ron and disappearing with a loud _pop_.

Ron picked up one of the pastries and took an enormous bite, his eyes alighting in pleasure. "I'd say this day is turning out much better than expected," he crowed. "Sure beats skiing, eh Hermione?"

It took her a minute to realize what he was talking about. "What? Oh- oh, yes."

Months ago she'd told the boys she intended to go skiing with her parents over the holiday. She'd been confident about finding a solution back then, had really believed that success was within her grasp. But here she was, on Christmas day, no closer to untangling this whole convoluted mess.

She stood up suddenly. "I have to go. I'll see you later."

Three confused faces turned upon her.

"Where are you going, Hermione?" Harry asked. "Should we come with you?"

"Well, if you like. I just want to get a better look at some of those old portraits. I read about them in _St. Mungo's: A History_ , quite fascinating," she said, watching their faces glaze over, as they so often did when she mentioned books. When had it become so easy to lie to her friends?

"How about we meet you back in Dad's ward?" Ginny suggested helpfully, to the visible relief of the boys.

Hermione agreed, left the Visitor's Tea Lounge, made her way down the fifth floor corridor, passed the gift shop and some nondescript offices, and arrived at last at a door marked "Records". Fingers fished in the pocket of her robes and withdrew a pass - marked _Augustus Pye, Trainee Healer_ \- and she stared at in for a moment in confusion before remembering that she'd nicked it from Mr. Weasley's room earlier. She inserted the pass into a little slot, and was glad to hear the answering click of the door unlocking itself.

This time, it was almost too easy.


	12. Delicate Sensibilities

Wow! Thanks for all the reviews and follows guys!

I haven't figured out how to respond to reviews directly (is this possible?), so I am going to address some questions generally at the end of this chapter.

* * *

"You wanted to see me, Headmaster?"

"Ah yes, Miss Granger! Come in, come in, have a seat," Dumbledore urged, gesturing her over to a chair which faced his old mahogany desk. Hermione did as she was told, noting with some trepidation that McGonagall and Snape were there as well, the latter regarding her with contempt from his perch on the windowsill.

"I trust your journey was pleasant?" Dumbledore inquired cordially.

"Uh… yes, sir." As a matter of fact, someone had thrown up on her shoes on the Knight Bus not an hour ago, but that was neither here nor there.

"Excellent. Now, I'm sure you're wondering why -"

"I think I know, sir," she interrupted, casting a wary glance at her Head of House.

"Not to worry, Miss Granger. This is not a disciplinary matter. Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape are here as Order members."

"Oh." That couldn't be good.

"Could you please tell us about the document you found?" Dumbledore requested, surprising Hermione, who had been certain they were here to inform her she was being expelled.

She reached into her suitcase and pulled out the record, laying it carefully on the table before her. "I made a copy, sir."

"What a surprise," Snape muttered irritably.

They all leaned in to examine the scroll Dumbledore unfurled with his wand, except Hermione, who had already studied it several times. It was a single sheet of paper, dated July 1943, recording the admission of Tom Riddle Jr. into the Psychiatric Ward at St. Mungo's for "depleted core magic and temporary psychosis".

"Curious…" the Headmaster intoned.

"I don't understand what she was doing there in the first place, Headmaster," the Potions master sneered, turning a cool gaze from the parchment to his second least favorite student. "Unless abusing the rules of Hogwarts is not enough for you any more, Miss Granger? Lost its thrill, has it?"

Ignoring his goading as usual, she ploughed straight into her prepared explanation: "I was looking for information to help Harry. With his ... um...visions. Since they're related to You Know Who, I decided to start looking there - "

" - Never stopping to think," Snape interrupted, "that those far more capable than yourself were already handling the situation? Or considering the risk to all of us if your activities were to be discovered by the wrong party? No?"

"No, sir," she bit out. Angry, perhaps, that he wasn't entirely wrong.

"What's done is done, Severus," the Headmaster sighed. "Miss Granger, tell me, did you show this paper to Harry? Or anyone else?"

"No, Professor McGonagall told me not to."

"And the attendant that discovered you - did she know what you were looking at?"

"I -" Hermione paused, unsure. She remembered going into the Records Room, finding Eloise Mintumble's file, and, on the way out, picking up a scroll from the floor, which turned out to be about Tom Riddle. The body bind was on her just as she finished putting the copy in her bag, and she fell forward, losing consciousness. Much of that day was still a mystery to Hermione; there were many moments entirely missing and the rest were clouded, hard to grasp.

"No Albus," McGonagall interjected, "I questioned that tiresome woman for more than an hour. She knows nothing."

Hermione turned a quizzical look on the scroll. There was something there, something her brain was trying to piece together.

"Headmaster…1943 was the year the Chamber of Secrets was opened, wasn't it? The year Moaning Myrtle died," she said.

His blue eyes found hers, and she sensed a whisper across the plane of her mind.

 _Don't think don't think don't think,_ echoed in her panicked brain.

"You are very perceptive, Miss Granger - a quality that will undoubtedly serve you well in the near future. However," his voice grew hard, "it is _absolutely imperative_ that you stop looking into this matter. This information could be very dangerous to Harry."

"Because his mind is vulnerable to Vol - You Know Who?"

"Indeed. That is why Professor Snape will be teaching him Occlumency."

Hermione nodded, thoughtful.

"Do I have your word, Miss Granger?"

"Yes, sir. I won't say anything."

"Excellent, excellent. You won't object if I hold on to this?" He picked up Riddle's record and Hermione shook her head. "Then I must bid you a good night, my dear. I'm sure you're eager to return to your common room."

She returned the Headmaster's 'good night' and made her way from the his office. Half-way down the spiral staircase, a call stopped her.

"Miss Granger, just a moment, please," McGonagall requested, coming level with Hermione on the stair.

"I will not be submitting your disciplinary request through official channels for… _obvious reasons_ ," the older witch informed her brusquely. "Obvious reasons" was, of course, code for Umbridge's growing tyranny over Hogwarts.

" _However_ ," she continued, "trespassing is a serious crime and I told 's that you would be punished accordingly. So, you will serve one month's detention with me and you will tell those who ask that you are working on an extra-credit Transfiguration project under my supervision."

"Professor… I... " Hermione wanted to apologize, but was cut short by the disappointed look on her favorite teacher's face. It was hard to bear.

"I admit, Miss Granger- I always figured Potter was the ringleader behind your shenanigans. But now I wonder."

Hermione suddenly found the hem of her sleeve incredibly fascinating.

"8 o'clock tomorrow. Sharp," McGonagall told her sternly, and, turning on her heel, made her way back to the Headmaster's office.

When she was gone, Hermione smacked her forehead with her palm.

"Why am I such a colossal idiot?" she groaned, earning a few raised eyebrows from the portraits in the stairwell.

She'd gotten over-confident, that was the problem. Losing track of time, she'd lingered in the Records room too long, prompting her friends to come looking for her. Worried by her disappearance, they had alerted the staff, and sure enough, the irritating Welcome Witch eventually tracked her down and hexed her.

Stalking through the halls on her way back to Gryffindor Tower lost in furious thoughts, Hermione didn't notice the anxious students scurrying out of her path. Everyone at Hogwarts - except perhaps Hermione herself - knew she had a reputation for being the one Prefect to avoid at all costs.

"Fifteen points from Ravenclaw!" she snapped, in passing, at a pair of amorous fourth-years. "Get back to your rooms before I take another ten!"

Bellatrix Lestrange was the cause of all of this, Hermione decided. The entire Azkaban ordeal was supposed to be about getting answers from Judith, but she had been side-tracked, distracted, overwhelmed by _that woman_. Who, as it turned out, was not worth saving. Given the state of her poor victim, Alice Longbottom, _that woman's_ admittedly horrendous conditions seemed a just punishment. Her beauty was completely irrelevant. The atomic cloud was beautiful too, and look how that turned out.

Passing a group of first years giggling over a game of Exploding Snap, Hermione sent them scurrying with a glare.

The entire thing was a debacle. The only positive side was that she'd picked up another thread of information on the path to untangling the mystery of Eloise Mintumble. The Unspeakable's record was interesting not so much for what it contained, but for what it omitted. Entire sections were redacted, and it was impossible to put together the exact circumstances leading to the woman's death. However - and this part gave Hermione chills when she read it first - part of the record noted that Eloise died at midnight on March 12th 1899, and another part said that she was discharged into the care of one Arcatus Rockwood on March _13th_. She'd later learned that Arcatus Rockwood was Eloise's assistant and eventually replaced her as Head of the Time Subdepartment after her death.

Then there was the other scroll - Voldemort's scroll. Which, honestly, she wouldn't have considered twice were it not for everyone's strange behavior. She didn't need to be a Legilimens to know that Dumbledore was hiding something or to figure out that Snape was lashing out from fear.

This train of thought was interrupted as someone hissed "Hermione!"

Turning around, she saw the one person she had been dreading running into back at school.

"Cho? What -" But before she could finish her question, the other witch had pulled her into an empty classroom and shut the door.

"Listen," the Ravenclaw began earnestly, "I need your help. Remember how you told me that I should just go ahead and ask out Harry? Well, it turns out I can't. I just haven't got the guts. You have to tell me what to say!"

Disbelief and irritation spread across Hermione's face. "I don't want to get involved in this," she protested.

"Please! Just… pretend you're doing it and tell me what you'd say."

Sighing heavily, Hermione looked at the black-haired witch and told her what she'd actually intended to say to her weeks ago."I would say that the next Hogsmeade weekend is on Valentine's day, and would you do me the honor of being my date?"

Cho's features crinkled in uncertainty. "Umm, don't you think that's a bit much?"

"Probably. Look, I'm not exactly an expert on this stuff." She really needed to get out of here.

"I guess you'll be going with Ron then?"

That stopped Hermione in her tracks. "No! What? Why would you say that?"

"Oh, well...I just assumed, you know...it's what everybody thinks. Is it Neville, then?"

"No, it's not Neville."

What the hell was wrong with people? Why couldn't they just leave her (nonexistent) love-life alone?

"Oh, OK then, I'll see you at the next D.A. meeting. Bye!" Cho chirruped. Giving Hermione a one-armed hug, she waltzed out the door without waiting for a reply, as usual.

Hermione, for her part, sank heavily into a chair and watched the door swing shut, disappointment rising like bile in her throat.

After a long while, she pulled herself together and returned to the common room. But sleep once again proved elusive, and she sat in her four-foster bed with the curtains drawn into the early morning hours, poring over her notes and trying to figure out the meaning behind Judith's cryptic words.

She spent the next day trying to avoid Neville, but the fates were not on her side. Snape partnered them in lab, and, after listening to the poor boy complain once more about the certainty of earning a "T" on his Potions O.W.L., she'd agreed to personally tutor him not only in Potions, but in Charms, and Arithmancy as well. In all likelihood, she would have to start using the Time Turner again, just to keep abreast of all her projects, and though she'd promised herself not to give into that temptation, this was certainly a worthy cause.

And Hermione did feel a lot less guilty - that is, until she laid eyes on the front page of the Prophet the following morning.

"MASS BREAKOUT FROM AZKABAN," the headline read, captioning the ten black-and-white photographs of the escapees.

And there she was, in all her psychotic glory.

Staring out of the little photo frame with haunted eyes and a devilish smirk playing about her lips. In the company of murderers, torturers, traitors, and spies, where she belonged.

Had she inadvertently facilitated this escape by giving her a pendant? Had she provided a ringleader who could resist the Dementors terrible power?

The woman had pleaded for death, and perhaps, Hermione now though, she should have granted her wish.

* * *

 _"Bellatrix...come out, come out, wherever you are…"_

The voice brought her out of her stupor, echoing in her cell as she sat up on her cot.

"Who is it?" she called out in confusion. Night had fallen long ago, but the corridors of Azkaban, usually filled with incoherent wailing, were eerily silent.

 _"Bella…Bella..."_

Rising, she approached the door, and tried to catch a glimpse outside though the little barred window. There was no one there. "What do you want?"

 _"Bella...come out and play…"_ the voice hummed, and, no sooner did it finish than the metal door creaked open, compelled by some invisible magic.

Dread engulfed her. She knew that voice. _But...it couldn't be...could it?_

As though of their own volition, her feet carried her through the doorway. At the end of the corridor, a shadow slid across the wall and disappeared around the corner. Following, she tried to catch up with her unseen visitor, but the shadow flitted on, always just out of reach.

Passing an open terrace, she saw a silent procession of guards, shuffling forth like Inferi under the direction of a hooded figure. Like a demented conductor, the figure waved them forward, and one by one, they approached the precipice and plummeted into the water below. The figure turned to her, and beneath its hood, she saw the reflected glint of the Death Eater mask.

 _"Bella...it's been so long…"_ the voice whispered in her ear. A blinding pain had taken root behind her eyes, and it crashed over her again and again as she turned towards the sound.

There, at last, stood the one that called her, shrouded in darkness.

"M-my Lord? Is-is that you?" she stuttered...and, for a second, she wanted desperately to turn and run. Run over the ledge like the luckless guards. Feel the dark waves ravage her in their fatal embrace.

And yet, her feet carried her forward. A small spark of joy had unfurled in her chest and it swelled uncontrollably, until she was running towards him like a lost child to its mother, like a stone succumbing to gravity, like time flowing inexorably onward.

At last, at last...she was before him, longing to be engulfed by his presence. He turned, and -

 _No! It couldn't be!_ "Lucius?"

The blond man's impassive features taunted her.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she screamed. "Where is the Dark Lord? What have you done with him?"

Malfoy said nothing, but a sadistic grin turned up the corners of his mouth.

"You bastard," she gasped. "Tell me where he is!"

Her hands wrapped around his throat, squeezing, and he grew paler, face contorting in a grimace of pain.

"Aunt Bella…" he squeaked.

 _Aunt Bella?_ But before she could consider what he'd said, a jet of magic swept her off her feet and hurled her into the wall.

Wincing, she opened her eyes, only to find herself on the business end of the wand of a furious Narcissa Malfoy.

"How dare you," the blond witch hissed. "I open my doors to you and this is how you repay me?"

Turning to her son, who was cowering against the opposite wall, hand clutched at his throat, she said: "Draco, darling, why don't you go wait for me in my sitting room."

The boy nodded, his eyes darting between the two women, and made his way to the door, but carefully, as though in the presence of a feral animal he didn't want to startle.

"And take the elves' passageways, stay out of sight," Narcissa called anxiously. "Your father has...company."

"Cissy? What's going on?" Bellatrix demanded, still disoriented.

"What's going on is that you tried to strangle my son!"

"But...that's ridiculous!" Bellatrix exclaimed, picking herself off the floor. "Draco's just a baby!"

Narcissa gazed at her in disbelief. "He was, Bella. In _1981_."

Was she mistaken, or was there an undercurrent of pity in Narcissa's voice? That was intolerable.

Approaching her sister, the dark witch grasped her wrist casually, and began to squeeze. It hurt, of course, but Narcissa would never give her the satisfaction of showing it.

"Going to hex me, Narcissa? Your own sister?" she whispered viciously. "What would Mummy say?"

"Mother is dead, Bellatrix," Narcissa replied tonelessly, wrenching free of her grasp. "Fortunately for her."

Turning her back on her sister, Bellatrix approached one of the grand windows, peering out at the moonlit gardens of Malfoy Manor. How was it possible that she'd forgotten about Mother?

"Drink this," Narcissa requested, holding out a small vial. "It's one of your healing potions. For the lung infection."

"Thank you," Bellatrix said grudgingly, downing the viscous liquid. It frustrated her immensely to have to rely on anyone, especially her youngest sister. She'd still been just a girl when Bellatrix got sent to Azkaban, but here she was now, a respectable wife and mother, the quintessential pureblood Lady of the House.

"Don't you think a bath is in order?" Narcissa asked, none too subtly looking towards the corner where Bellatrix had made a nest out of sofa cushions, on which she had slept for the past two days since her escape.

Following her gaze, the dark witch snorted, both angry and embarrassed. Lady Malfoy clearly failed to appreciate why someone who had slept on the floor for years might fight the prospect of a normal bed unsettling. It was too high and too soft; it made her feel vulnerable.

"I don't see why. I've lived in my own filth for fourteen years, whats a couple more days?" Bellatrix drawled. "What, does it offend your _delicate sensibilities_ , Cissy?"

Approaching the bureau, she tried to pour herself a glass of water, but her hands shook so much that half of it ended up on the ground.

"Here - let me help you -" Narcissa offered, reaching for the decanter.

"I can manage myself, for Merlin's sake!" Bellatrix snapped, wrenching away the glass.

"Really?" Narcissa demanded, frustration lacing her words. "Because yesterday I spent two hours holding your hair back while you threw up blood on my best carpet. And then you passed out in it. Remember that?"

She didn't. She didn't even know how long she'd been here, or how she'd come. All she remembered was lying in her corner, too numb to move, for what felt like a small eternity.

"What do you want, a damn Order of Merlin? You should have sent one of the house elves."

"I did. You threw a vase, nearly killed him."

"I'll write you a cheque for property damage, shall I? What does an elf go for these days? 100 gold?"

Narcissa massaged the bridge of her nose, an uncanny reflection of their mother, who would do the same when her daughters got out of hand, which was often.

"Bella…"

"Don't! Don't you fucking _dare_ lecture me!" she raged. "You have no idea what I went though in that hellhole while you were here, living in the lap of luxury. And not one word from you all those years, dear sister! Couldn't even bother to make your useless husband arrange a visit! Even Andromeda - " she paused, mid-tirade, unable to go on.

"What about Andromeda?" Narcissa's voice had grown deadly serious.

"She wrote. Once," Bellatrix laughed, and the sound was hollow. "Told me I deserved to rot. Sent a photo of her little half-blood brat, for some reason."

"Do you still have it?" Narcissa reluctantly asked, herself unsure why she would care.

"No. They took it."

Suddenly, memories of Azkaban assaulted her senses, drawing all the air from the room. Her vision swam as the shadows quivered in their corners, laughing at her softly. The ground rose up, and she was on the floor again, heaving up bile.

Soft hands smoothed her hair back, trying to offer comfort, but it was unbearable. The tenderness repulsed her.

"Get your hands off me!" she growled, clawing blindly at the other witch and crawling back towards the wall.

For a moment Narcissa looked ready to hit her, or cry, but then her features melted back into a porcelain mask. The blond witch adjusted her robes, and stood.

"Perhaps you should go be with your husband," she said haughtily.

Oh, right. Rodolphus. She had forgotten about him. "If you want me to leave, just say so."

Some unspoken emotion flittered across the younger woman's face. She looked as though she were on the verge of saying something, but in the end she just reached into her robe and pulled out a long, curved Walnut wand.

"I kept this for you," she said coolly, tossing the weapon on the floor near her sister. And with that, she strode out of the room, head held high.

The sound of the door snapping shut almost made Bellatrix flinch.

The wand lay there, looking perfectly innocent, as though it had never channeled an Unforgivable. Mocking her.

"You're not worthy anymore," it seemed to say.

 _Were you ever worthy?_

* * *

Notes:

So, the "romance" part of this tale is definitely playing second fiddle to the "mystery" part right now, and will continue to do so for quite a while. This story is outlined and partially written through Year 7, so unfortunately (fortunately?) it will be long and convoluted.

To those who were excited about improvements in Hermione's sneaking-skills and Bellatrix's sanity: Sorry! It won't come so easy.

To those who are confused by seeming red herrings: I do try to tie up loose plot threads and will explain everything eventually.


	13. A Lost Cause

Thanks for the follows and reviews everybody! They're making me super inspired to write!

I don't want to spoil the story, but I was thinking I should clarify a few things so people are not disappointed later: 1. No one will be time-travelling to the first-war period, 2. I don't enjoy writing Bellatrix as a sociopath, so she won't be one here, and 3. Hermione is headed head-first into a moral grey area, which may or may not be considered OOC. I just think of it as taking some of her qualities to their logical conclusion.

* * *

The gardens of Malfoy Manor were considered some of the finest in wizarding Britain, containing not only an impressive collection of impeccably-manicured topiaries, but also a wide variety of magical plants and herbs. On any given week, one could find a Potioneer or two puttering about in the bushes on the search for rare ingredients. Lucius Malfoy could certainly have strengthened the wards to keep out these intruders, but he preferred to set the dogs on them so that the beasts could get some exercise.

Watching those poor souls being chased across the snow-covered lawn had become one of Bellatrix's only distractions, and she would often stand by the windows, trying to catch a glimpse from behind the curtain, fearful lest the sunlight linger too long on her skin. When the last wizard had scrambled over the wall, barely avoiding the hound nipping at his feet, she made her way over to one of the drawing room settees and fell into it gracelessly.

Grabbing Narcissa's _Witch Weekly_ off the table, she flipped through it with distaste, trying hard to ignore the row going on in the hall.

"Well, I hope you're satisfied, Cissy! You can't possibly imagine how hard it was to get that witch here! Not to mention her services are not exactly cheap," Malfoy hissed.

"It's literally _the least_ you could do, Lucius, after what you've put this family through!" her sister whispered back furiously. "Or have you forgotten that Bella testified to keep you out of prison? That could have been you! Draco would have never known his father!"

"Yes, well, she has my undying gratitude. But I don't see why she needs to stay in _this_ house -"

"Because she is _my sister_ , which is a bond I suppose you'll never understand. But if _you_ want to be the the one to tell the Dark Lord that we're evicting her, be my guest!"

There was a moment of hostile silence. And then:

"She killed my peacock, Narcissa! My _favorite_ peacock!" he whinged.

Bellatrix gave an unladylike snort, but stifled her laughter, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping.

"Well, he was rather getting on in years, wasn't he?" Narcissa replied wearily, as though tired of having the same argument.

"That's ridiculous!" Lucius exclaimed, forgetting to lower his voice. "Agamemnon was in the prime of life!"

"Shhhh! Be quiet!" Narcissa warned.

"I will not be dictated to in _my own house_! And by my wife, no less!"

"Oh I beg your pardon, Lord Malfoy!" Narcissa sneered, her tone cold as ice. "Would it please his highness to take breakfast on the east patio while the rest of us mere mortals carry on with our business?"

Anyone familiar with her ways knew that this was a dismissal, and, indeed, Bellatrix heard Malfoy's retreating footsteps a moment later. _Smart man,_ she thought, imagining her little sister taking a moment to fix her hair and plaster on a smile in the hall before entering.

When she finally did so, the dark witch pretended to be engrossed in a particularly agonizing article titled " _10 Beauty Tricks (and Treats) to Snag the Wizard of Your Dreams!_ "

"Good morning, Bellatrix," the blond witch greeted, coming to stand over her sister, inspecting her minutely. "How are you feeling today?"

"Like shit, thanks for asking," Bellatrix grunted.

Narcissa pursed her lips, as though wanting to scold her for the improper tone, but decided against it. Instead, she settled on her other favorite subject: Bella's grooming habits.

"I see the hairbrush I gave you was not to your liking."

Bellatrix tossed the magazine aside with an irritated sigh. "What the hell do you want from me, Cissy? You told me I had to leave my room today - well, here I am!"

 _What more can you possibly expect?_ her eyes seemed to imply. She'd even changed out of her Azkaban uniform and put on one of her old work robes for the occasion. The hem may have been a bit stained, but she was reasonably sure it wasn't blood, just mud.

"You do realize that cut went out of style twenty years ago," Narcissa pointed out nonchalantly. "In fact, it was already out of style when you bought it."

"No!" Bellatrix gasped in mock horror. "The indignity! The outrage! If you want to disown me for bringing permanent shame upon the family name, I would understand."

A smile flitted across the blond woman's lips, but it was gone so soon one couldn't be sure it had ever been there.

When they were kids, Narcissa used to laugh all the time; she had always been the most lighthearted among the Black girls. Andromeda had been the studious one, and Bellatrix the troublemaker. Usually it would be the eldest and the youngest ganging up to pull pranks on the straight-laced middle sister, with Bellatrix the ringleader, and Narcissa her eager sidekick. Half the time they'd get caught in the act because Cissy couldn't hold in her giggling.

A genuine grin crossed her features as Bellatrix remembered this little fact - her first happy recollection since Azkaban. She had assumed those kinds of memories had been lost to her forever, gobbled up by the Dementors, but perhaps they'd just been buried in the recesses of her mind where they would be safe.

"Are you ready for your visitor?" Narcissa asked.

"No," she said, petulant.

"Well, I suggest you prepare yourself, then, because seeing her is my condition for your continued stay here."

"I don't understand what meeting that hack is supposed to achieve, Cissy!"

"She's not a hack!" the younger witch protested. "She happens to be the world's foremost authority on healing the mind."

"So, an overpaid hack then."

"Bellatrix, Healer Amin is incredibly busy, and we are fortunate that Lucius was able to convince her to spare some of her time on _you_."

"Little does she know I'm a lost cause," the dark witch smirked.

"That may be the case, Madame Lestrange," came the dispassionate response from the doorway, "but we will not know until we try."

Both witches turned upon the intruder; Narcissa looked scandalized, clearly hoping the witch hadn't overheard the way they'd been speaking about her a moment ago, while Bellatrix looked completely indifferent.

Getting her bearings quickly, Narcissa smiled politely and ushered the healer into a chair next to her reluctant patient.

"It's a pleasure to have you in our home," she said, ever the perfect hostess. "Is there anything I can get you? Tea, perhaps?"

"Tea would be most welcome," the healer assented. She was a woman in her late sixties, with streaks of grey running through her black braid, and carried herself with great dignity. Bellatrix supposed that at one point, she may have been uncommonly beautiful.

Placing the order with a house elf, Narcissa wished them a pleasant visit and excused herself.

Bellatrix, for her part, wasted no time launching into her attack. "Look, I've been strong-armed into this ridiculous meeting by my darling sister, who's going to kick me out unless I talk to you. So let's get this over with as quickly as possible, and then you will issue me a clean bill of health so I can finally get Narcissa off my back."

"I'm afraid it's not that simple, Madame Lestrange," the healer explained steadily, apparently having failed to take offense.

Fighting the urge to backhand the woman in front of her, Bellatrix took a deep breath. Having to mutely endure torture at the hands of Azkaban guards with nary a brain cell between them had done wonders for her self-restraint.

"Then why are you here?" she demanded instead.

The healer quirked her eyebrows, mildly amused. "I am here at the request of your brother-in-law, to see if I can offer any assistance."

"Well, I'm afraid your efforts will be wasted on me, _Healer Amin_. I've been told I'm completely incorrigible," Bellatrix informed her with a smirk.

"Please, call me Amitra," the woman graciously requested, "and I have no intention of doing anything but speaking with you. If it so happens that our conversations are useful to you in some way, then I have achieved my aims." There was just the merest hint of an accent in her voice, and Bellatrix wondered if she was familiar with the war or with English politics.

"Tell me why you would want to interview a Death Eater," she ordered.

The healer tilted her head thoughtfully. "Professional curiosity, I suppose."

"You're not afraid I'm going to break your neck?"

"Is that important to you, that I be afraid?"

Bellatrix narrowed her eyes. _What sort of inane question was that?_ "I'm just wondering what makes you think you can handle hearing about my life?"

"Well, my last patient was Gellert Grindelwald," the healer revealed, impressing Bellatrix against her will. "And before you ask, no, I am not at liberty to comment on any of my other cases."

" _Spoilsport_ ," the dark witch muttered.

The silence stretched long between them then, as the healer placidly sipped her tea and Bellatrix fidgeted with her wand.

"I suppose you want to hear about my childhood?" she finally spat.

"If that is where you'd like to start, yes," the healer humoured her.

"It was wonderful," Bellatrix baited. "My parents were saints."

But a thoughtful "hmm" was all the response she got as the healer reached into her briefcase and withdrew a parchment and a lovely multicolor quill. Noticing the Death Eater's admiring gaze upon the latter, she explained: "It's a tailfeather of the Indian peafowl, a gift from your famous wandmaker, Ollivander."

"Well, I can certainly still appreciate _beautiful things_ ," Bellatrix murmured, eyes trailing insolently across the older woman's exposed clavicle.

To her credit, the Healer's face remained completely impassive. " _Still?_ " she stressed.

"I - " Bellatrix began, but stopped, disconcerted. "It's a figure of speech."

"Is it? I thought perhaps you were referring to your time in Azkaban."

"We're _not_ going to talk about Azkaban," Bellatrix growled, praying that the godforsaken shadows that plagued her would keep at bay, at least for now.

"That's fine," the healer said. "Let's return to your parents, then. Lady Malfoy tells me that your father suffered some early dementia. That couldn't have been easy."

"Is _that_ what she told you? I shouldn't be surprised, Cissy loves her euphemisms. The truth is, he was completely - "

Bellatrix stopped short, with a distinct sense of having been neatly manipulated. Had she really been about to discuss her father with this glorified hand-holder?

One had it to give it to her though: the woman knew what she was doing. Unwilling to say more, the Death Eater settled for the most intimidating glare she could manage. A glare that had reduced grown witches to tears on more than one occasion, Bellatrix was proud to note.

Seemingly unphased, the healer continued: "Are you aware that psychological issues are often hereditary? I wonder if you see any parallels between your father and yourself in that respect."

"I am _nothing_ like him," she hissed with venom. "I would _never_ do the things - "

 _Stop it, Bella. She's goading you into revealing too much._

Springing out of her seat, the dark witch paced to the window, tension evident in every limb. She dug her nails into the flesh of her palms, trying to let the pain ground her.

"I notice you don't wear your wedding ring, Madame Lestrange," the healer remarked softly.

Jerking her sleeves down, Bellatrix hid her hands from the woman's all-too-perceptive gaze. "I'm afraid to lose it," she ground out.

"Really? I thought it might be because you believe your associates won't take you seriously if they see you as just a wife."

"Oh, is that what you think?" she drawled, the tone of mockery disguising her unease.

"What I think is that you sacrificed a lot in your life to become more than that."

And for some reason, _that_ last comment brought Bellatrix to the end of her patience. "Don't talk to me about what I've sacrificed! You know nothing!" she shrilled. "NOTHING!"

Fury clouded her vision - sudden and blinding as a lightning strike - and before she knew it, she was leaning over the healer with her curved wand at her throat, breathing hard.

Curiously, the healer betrayed no reaction, almost as though she'd been expecting an outburst.

"Please have a seat, Madame Lestrange," she said, grasping the Death Eater's wrist and lowering her wand arm gently.

Pulling away as though burned by this fleeting touch, Bellatrix looked down at her hand. It was the hand of an old woman, all protruding bones and paper-thin skin, holding a wand which no longer worked. Or maybe it was she, herself, who didn't work anymore.

"Tell me - what did you think of, just now?" the healer asked, pulling the dark witch out of her miserable introspection.

"What?"

"You went somewhere in your mind - what was it you thought of before you lost control?"

 _Hazel eyes, watching her with hatred, disappointment, immeasurable sadness, boring into the very darkest part of her heart where all her secrets lay carefully concealed._ Bellatrix dug her palms into her eyesockets to block out the vision, but those hazel eyes remained, as they always did. Watching her every move. Demanding _How could you?_ with every breath she took.

"You need to leave," the dark witch said, defeat weighing down her words. She had her back to the older woman, refusing to give her another opportunity to throw out some unbearably incisive observation.

"Yes, perhaps it is best we conclude for now," the healer agreed after a long moment. "However, I should tell you that if you want your magic to return to what it was before prison, you are going to have to process all of those uncomfortable memories."

"How do you know about my magic?" Bellatrix snarled, turning upon the other witch. But then it occurred to her - Narcissa. Of course that insufferable, nosy cow had said something about her magic. "And what the hell do my memories have to do with it?"

"Magic is a skill, like any other," the healer explained. "If you suppress awareness of the years you spent building up that skill, the knowledge will remain unavailable to you. You could re-learn everything of course," Bellatrix snorted at the idea, "but I don't think you want to do that."

No, she didn't want to do that. Or, more to the point, her usefulness to the Dark Lord would be extremely limited if she failed to regain her former skills, and fast. Unfortunately, she knew all too well what her master did with useless things.

Stifling her pride for the moment - and really, what use was pride when you had the darkest wizard of all time breathing down your neck - she asked: "What do you recommend I do?"

"You should acquire a Pensieve. Visiting familiar places or old friends may be beneficial as well. Looking at mementos, or a diary. Anything that will help you remember."

Bellatrix wasn't one for _thank you's_ or polite chit chat - all that was better left to Narcissa - so she merely nodded in response and let the healer see herself out.

Moments later, she heard her sister's dulcet tones in the hall, no doubt trying to smooth over any social friction Bella had caused, a job that in the past had always belonged to Andromeda. She knew that Narcissa would be in here before long, interrogating her about the meeting, asking how she was feeling in that unbearably patronising tone, trying to pressure her into spending time together.

But she just wasn't up for any of it today. That Healer had worn her out more than she realized, left her feeling like a rock somebody had turned over - unearthing a colony of insects which quickly scurried out of sight, terrified to face the light of day.

Approaching the french doors leading out to the terrace, she looked out over the grounds beyond, turned barren and grey in the bleak light of the January morning. It had been so long since she'd last seen snow that she'd nearly forgotten what it looked like. Its cold was crisp and refreshing, so unlike the lingering, bone-chilling cold of the North Sea. Somewhere beneath that white blanket, nature was sleeping, waiting for the exuberance of spring to come and breathe new life into its drooping branches.

Leaving the warm comfort of the drawing room, Bellatrix descended into the garden, watching with amusement as the peacocks scurried into the trees in their rush to avoid her. The dogs, too, kept their distance, recognizing in her a predator that had grown dangerous though sheer desperation.

She walked slowly down the lane to the main gate, trying to picture where she wanted to go. A familiar place, the Healer had said. To help her remember. Well, she had thought of just the right spot.

"Bella!" someone called from the house, but she didn't turn back; Cissy's temper tantrum would surely keep for a few hours. Instead she took out her wand, concentrated on the image in her mind's eye, and prayed for luck.

 _Pop!_ The air around her crackled, and she was gone.

The Apparition wasn't anything spectacular, but when her feet made contact with the ground, she could have laughed for joy to have made it in one piece. She had been seventeen the last time she'd seriously feared splinching, and hadn't needed a wand to do it since she was twenty - but still, it was more than she could have hoped for under the circumstances.

It was commonly accepted wisdom that a witch should never apparate to a Muggle area in broad daylight, and if her sister could see her now she would most certainly have a very unladylike fit. But somehow, Bellatrix couldn't bring herself to be concerned with being spotted, even by wizards. If the Aurors caught up with her, she would go out in a blaze of glory - and that was probably the best she could hope for these days, a death worthy of a warrior.

Looking around, she noted that little seemed to have changed in this drab, dirty, Muggle-infested little town, which huddled against the hillside under the looming shadow of a long-abandoned mill. Here, she could imagine that time stood still, had waited for her for fourteen years, and the thought made her feel a little lighter.

Mother had always said, if you must wallow, you'd better do it with the filth in the gutter. Which is why she now found herself outside the _Death Laughs Last_ tavern, her old beloved haunt. Everything was just the same, down to the patched roof and the grime in the windowpanes. Even the pigeon droppings on the sign were still there, making the painted, hooded skeleton look like it was crying muddy tears.

The wood door creaked as she pushed it open, and the all-too-familiar smell of sour cabbage assaulted her nostrils. It was barely noon, but in the gloom she noticed that a couple of regulars had already staked out their corners. No one spared her another glance,despite her strange apparel, though maybe in the dead of winter her black robes could have passed for a long overcoat.

She made her way to the far end of the bar, the only spot in the house where you could keep your eye on all the windows and doors at the same time.

"What'll it be, luv?" the barman wheezed, and looking up, Bellatrix saw with immense relief that it was still the same ancient man with the funny round glasses. The feeling of deja-vu that washed over her was bittersweet. It was as though this little place had ceased to exist while she was gone, as though she'd conjured it up from memory exactly the same as it had been so many years ago. Except that, she, herself, had changed so much.

"Whiskey," she told him, with a crooked half-smile. It wasn't exactly Old Ogden's, but you couldn't expect much from the Muggles. "Just give me the bottle."

"You know, if you're trying to drown your sorrows, there's a river out back," the old man chuckled, pouring out the first measure. He'd made that joke to her at least a dozen times before, and though it had never been amusing, she did find it oddly comforting now.

Not a soul alive would ever believe that Bellatrix Lestrange would deign to step foot in a Muggle hole like this, and that, really, was the entire appeal. Back when she cared about her reputation as the pure-blood scion of the Most Noble House of Black, she'd found it was impossible to get properly plastered in public in the wizarding world without setting the gossip-mill ablaze. She'd stumbled upon _Death Laughs Last_ on a raid one night, realizing that it was just the right place where she could be at her worst night after night and no one would look at her twice.

"Do you remember me?" she tossed out, though she wasn't sure why it would matter. They were just Muggles, after all. Hardly people.

The old man squinted at her for a long moment, before nodding. "Oh yes, you're the girl who used to bring her own knives to play darts. Were pretty good too, if memory serves. It's been a long time."

"It has."

"What happened? D'you get married?"

"I was in prison."

"Ah. Fine distinction, there," he muttered, drawing an involuntary snort from Bellatrix.

"Indeed." She gave him a nod of thanks and retreated to one of the shadowed alcoves - her usual seat.

The whiskey sat in front of her for a long while, before she gave in to the inevitable and took the first gulp. If that damned Healer wanted her to wax nostalgic, well - there was no way she was going down that treacherous road without her oldest, dearest friend.


	14. The First Time

Thanks for the follows, favorites and reviews guys!

So, this chapter ends up in a very dark place. Wasn't intending it like this, but it sort of wrote itself. Violence/Assault warning.

* * *

 _1969._

Sunlight filtered through the branches of the wych elms that lined the path to Hogsmeade, signalling the long-awaited arrival of summer. Trailing a few steps behind her sisters to levitate their trunks, Bellatrix breathed in the sweet smell of honeysuckle blooming along the path, and though, with just a trace of regret, that she would likely never walk this path again.

Seventh year had come and gone in a breeze, like a lazy afternoon daydream, and here she was, making the journey down to the Hogwarts Express for the very last time. In the distance, she could just catch a glimpse of the castle beyond the treeline, and the sight of its ancient turrets brought a small, wistful smile to her lips.

Up ahead, Andromeda was prattling on to an uninterested-looking Cissy: "I just _can't wait_ to get my O.W.L. results! Although there's one question on the Arithmancy exam I think I may have missed -"

"Oh, do tell..." Bellatrix muttered snidely, but it didn't register with the younger girl, who had already began to elaborate.

"I think I might have mixed up the stars in Orion on my constellation map, because I never remember which one is Rigel and which one is Betelgeuse. And you know when the star chart is off, the numerology can get a bit weird. I still think I came out with the correct equation in the end, but I just don't know for _sure_ \- "

"You what's even more mystifying?" Bellatrix chirped, coming up and draping one arm across Andromeda's shoulders. "How you managed to turn into such an unbearable bloody swot."

Wriggling from under her sister's grasp, Andromeda shot her a dirty look. "Don't be jealous that I'm going to get more O.W.L's then you, Bella!" she goaded.

"Why would I be jealous? I don't need those scores to play for Puddlemere."

"Do you really think they'll take you, Bella?" Cissy turned to look at her, all puppy-dog eyes and childish faith.

"Of course! I'm the best Slytherin's had in decades!," she boasted. "I'd settle for the Harpies too, although - "

Narcissa's little face crinkled in distaste. "Aren't they… Welsh?"

"Sacrifices, little sis. I put in a season or two in some backwater where the talent's mediocre, impress the scouts, and _bam!_ I'm off to the big leagues."

"Will you...will you still visit us? You'll probably be on tour all the time..." the blond witch sniffled, looking down at her shoes. Narcissa, barely thirteen, was the one taking Bella's leaving Hogwarts the hardest.

" _Of course_ I'll visit, Cissy. Who's going to torment poor Andy over here if I'm gone?" Bellatrix said, messing the brunette's perfectly-combed locks and earning a shove for her troubles.

They had just under an hour to kill in the village before the train arrived, and they spent most of it stuffing their pockets with Honeydukes merchandise as per usual. Andy and Cissy had saved their allowance to buy her a graduation present - a top-of-the-line pair of spell-resistant dragonhide boots - and they surprised her with it over a round of Butterbeers in the Three Broomsticks.

They made her put them on immediately, and, looking at their self-satisfied, grinning little faces, Bellatrix felt incredibly fortunate for the first time in a very long while.

She raised her glass. "To the Black sisters!"

"The best sisters ever!" Cissy chorused. "And also the prettiest!"

"Here, here!" Andy chimed in. "May the future be bright, and may Bella have more N.E.W.T.s than she had boyfriends!"

"Aw, such a touching family moment," a slightly-accented voice intruded. "I am almost sorry to interrupt." It was Rodolphus, who, throughout their entire acquaintance, had never mastered the skill of figuring out when he wasn't wanted.

Bellatrix could only roll her eyes in exasperation. "Then why don't you bugger off, you nosy git!"

"Come on, Bells, we've got important plans to discuss!" he whinged, gesturing over to his brother in the corner. The Lestrange boys had been on the Slytherin team with her for years; they were the closest thing to friends that Bellatrix had ever had.

"What plans?" Andy demanded suspiciously. She was perpetually convinced that her elder sister was up to no good, and, to be fair, that was usually true.

Before Bellatrix could punch him under the table to keep him quiet, Rodolphus blurted: "The World Cup in Amsterdam next month, and how we're going to get there!"

Cissy turned upon her with shocked eyes. "Bella, you're not...going, are you?"

"Shhh...Mother can never find out, but yes, we are," she whispered in a conspiratorial tone.

"But we've never been out of the country before!"

"That's why it's going to be fun! I figured I'd do the whole grand tour of Europe while I'm at it. Maybe stop by the boys' place in Paris."

Andy shook her head in horrified disbelief. "Are you _completely_ mental?"

Bellatrix smirked and downed the last of her Butterbeer in one gulp."Wait - don't tell me that the biggest goody-two-shoes of all time objects? I _never_ would have guessed!"

Despite Bella's many pleas to drop the subject, Andromeda refused to let it go, and continued to harangue her as they walked down to the train station, and for the entire journey to London. Only when they spotted Mother, statuesque and prim as always, waiting for them on the platform at King's Cross, did she finally let up.

Having recently acquired her license, Bellatrix was permitted to Apparate herself home for the first time, though Mother didn't trust her to side-along with the girls.

Their house had never been a cheerful place, but the atmosphere felt more somber than usual when she stepped through the door. Was it the mournful glance their ancient house elf shot her, or the subtle tension in her mother's jaw that made dread bloom in Bella's chest? Her sisters, sensing that something was amiss, shot her twin looks of worry, which she answered with a small shrug.

Putting a reassuring hand on Narcissa's shoulder, she said: "I suppose we'd better go unpack. Get our trunks, would you Kreacher?"

The hunched elf seemed less thrilled than usual to have the girls home from school, and, looking carefully, Bellatrix noticed the fading traces of a wound on his knobby, grey head.

"Right away, Miss." He gave a deep bow and, with a simple snap of the fingers, disappeared along with their luggage and Andy's Spectacled Owl, Tisiphone.

Bellatrix ushered her sisters upstairs, locking and warding the door to their bedroom when they were all safely inside. The room was set up much like the Slytherin dorms, with three four-poster beds in a ring around a small sitting area. It hadn't been planned this way, of course; at first, this had been Bella's room, but Andy had started sleeping with her so often when they were kids that eventually they'd conjured another bed to accommodate her. Cissy soon followed.

Half an hour passed as Andromeda began her summer assignments, Narcissa meticulously unpacked her clothes and toiletries, and Bellatrix pored over the World Cup programme, trying to decide where to lay her bets. No one spoke, but the silence was heavy with tension and unarticulated fears.

The youngest sister, as usual, was the first to break. "Something's going on," she pronounced, a slight quiver in her voice.

Andromeda, sprawled on the floor by the fireplace, flipped a page and sighed. "We don't know that for sure. It's probably nothing, Cissy."

But the blond witch would not be reassured so easily. "It's _never_ nothing. Did you see father?"

"No, the study was closed."

"He's probably passed out in a pool of vomit somewhere," Bellatrix tossed out nonchalantly.

"Yeah, and maybe he'll drown in it," Andromeda spat.

Without looking up from her calculations of Belgium's odds in the semi-finals, Bellatrix gave a humorless snort. "One can only hope."

Narcissa, seeming vaguely uncomfortable with this exchange, glanced at the clock. "It's almost time to go down for dinner. I suppose we'll know then."

Fifteen minutes later, they descended the stairs in their formal robes - even Bellatrix, who had been alternately cajoled and threatened by Cissy and Andy. The family convened for an end-of-term dinner every year, but this occasion was particularly special because she was the first to have graduated among her cousins. _There better be cake_ , Bellatrix thought petulantly, glaring at the gaudy Slytherin streamers which had overtaken the entrance hall. _Because I didn't drag my arse all the way down here for there not to be cake. And good cake, too: Every-flavor Cheesecake, or Fever Fudge Tart -_

"Uncle Polly!" Narcissa squealed, interrupting her train of thought. She rushed down and into the open arms of one of her parents' oldest friends, a wizard who had been at school with her father and had known the girls since they were in nappies.

"That can't be my little flower, can it? When did you get so big?" Uncle Pollux teased. "Oh, and Andromeda too! I bet you have to beat the boys off with a broom, eh?" He gave a hearty chuckle as the girls blushed faintly, and Bellatrix tried hard not to roll her eyes.

"Ah, and how could I forget Bellatrix…"

Before he could pull her into a hug like the others, she thrust her outstretched hand toward him, and, though momentarily startled, he grasped it - _oh sweet Merlin please don't kiss it,_ Bellatrix wailed inside her head - and shook it, though perhaps a bit too long. She fumbled some excuse to leave as her sisters eagerly awaited the gifts he had brought, and made her way to the parlor, where some other guests had already assembled.

"Aunt Walburga, Uncle Orion, nice to see you again," she greeted stiffly. In the corner she noticed Sirius and Regulus side by side on the sofa, dressed in matching robes and bowties, trying desperately to disappear into the woodwork.

"Ah, yes. Finished Hogwarts, have you?" Orion mumbled into his wine glass, not bothering to spare her a glance. The man could only summon enthusiasm for three things in life; fine cuisine, Thestral-breeding, and the Gringotts Exchange. "Excellent, excellent…"

"Thank you, sir," she ground out.

Walburga pursed her lips, a sure sign of an impending diatribe on blood purity. "You know in my day," she began as Bellatrix mutely prayed for patience, "Hogwarts still hung on to some shred of decency; yes, there were a handful of Mudbloods, but they were like elves - seen and not heard. But now! Sweet Circe, now the place is crawling with them! And what is this I hear about Head Boy this year being a Mudblood?"

"It's true, Aunt Walburga."

"What an absolute disgrace! How this can be tolerated in civilized society, I will never understand!"

Walburga could go on for hours about Mudbloods, blood traitors, half-breeds, werewolves, house elves, Centaurs, Goblins, and the Ministry without running out of steam or even pausing for breath, so Bellatrix stayed quiet except for a well-timed nod, not wanting to spur her on. Cissy, who was busy entertaining the boys with her collection of charmed sugar-mice, shot her a sympathetic glance. Fortunately, the tirade died down as they sat at the dinner table; their mother Druella, though she did not disagree with her sister-in-law's hardline views, considered it uncouth to discuss politics in polite company.

The rest of the evening proceeded in a ripple of trite commentary about the weather and idle small talk. Even Cygnus showed up in the end, and managed to toss out a few monosyllabic responses, sat slumped in his chair and high out of his mind, as everyone politely averted their gaze. Across from Bellatrix, Uncle Polly told some amusing stories about his school days, punctuating the punch-lines with an energetic slap on Father's shoulder. It couldn't have been over a moment too soon for Bellatrix who had, to her immense consternation, realized that there would be no cake after all.

After the guests had all disappeared in the green flames of the fireplace, Bellatrix had been about to follow her sisters upstairs, when Druella called her aside.

"Come into my study for a moment," she requested. Trying to eavesdrop, the girls slowed their pace on the stairs to glacial levels, but a stern look sent them scurrying.

Inside the study, barely big enough to fit a desk and chair, notebooks and ledgers were scattered haphazardly. "Mother? What's going on?" Bellatrix demanded.

Druella didn't look at her as she tidied some scrolls and picked up a book from the floor, but when she spoke her voice was strained. "I have some...news." She took a breath, as though trying to steady her nerves. "Your Father and I… are considering an offer of marriage on your behalf."

Moments passed as the silence grew strained, tensed under the weight, and snapped.

"WHAT?" she exploded. "From who?!"

Druella gave a bone-weary sigh as she vanished the remnant's of that afternoon's tea. "Pollux Carrow."

Bellatrix gasped. "Uncle Polly?" Her brain kept short-circuiting as she tried to process this information. Finally, it latched onto a single detail, and she blurted "But...he's ancient! He's your age!"

Her mother's eyes narrowed - clearly she was thinking of telling off her daughter for her poor manners - but instead, she said reasonably: "He's the heir of the Carrow family, one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, not to mention very successful in the radio business."

Shaking her head feverishly, Bellatrix refused to listen. "He used to play with me when I was a baby, mother! I would rather marry _anybody_ , even a half-blood! _For fuck's sake_!"

The sound of a slap seemed unusually loud in the little study, and a small gasp from outside the door announced the presence of a particularly inept spy - probably Kreacher.

"Don't you _ever_ say that, Bellatrix," Druella hissed, though it was unclear whether she meant the half-blood thing or the profanity.

She shot her mother a wounded look, rubbing at her sore cheek.

"You're not a little girl anymore, Bella. Have you even considered what you're going to do now that you're finished with school?"

"Quidditch tryouts are at the end of July, and I'm going to play for Puddlemere United."

Druella shook her head in exasperation. "Do you realize how incredibly unlikely that is? There's one spot, and what, a hundred applicants? And if you do qualify, your career will be over in a decade and you'll be unmarriageable. What will you do then, hmm?"

Truthfully, she hadn't thought too much about that, lost in the fantasy of having an international Quidditch career. She didn't really have the grades to work for the Ministry, nor the temperament. "I...well, maybe I'll be a coach…or, I could design brooms..." she stuttered.

" _Listen_ to yourself, Bellatrix."

Her mother's piercing gaze unsettled her, and she looked away as a niggling feeling of doubt began to overtake her. "I...I mean...but, surely there must be somebody else…"

"It was incredibly difficult to make arrangements with the Malfoys and Longbottoms for your sisters, and there no one else eligible. We should be grateful - "

A sudden thought came to her, and she burst out excitedly: "What about Rodolphus! The Lestranges have been pureblood for ages!"

"I know he's your friend, darling, and believe me, I tried," Druella said, and she sounded genuinely regretful. "But they have a longstanding arrangement with some French family."

 _There goes my last hope then_ , she thought, trying to squelch her panic. "Well, then I just won't get married!"

"And how do you propose to support yourself, hmm? Because I am barely managing as it is, between the school expenses, the house, your _father_ \- " Druella trailed off, bitterness and exhaustion replacing her typical measured tones.

"What...what are you saying?" Bellatrix gasped.

"I am saying that there's no money."

This admission hung heavy in the air between them as Bellatrix tried to comprehend a problem she had never before considered in her life. True, they hadn't had new robes in a while or taken any trips, but she hadn't cared enough at the time to try to figure out why.

"Well, can't we just ask Uncle Orion?" she suggested at last.

"We already owe him too much. He and Walburga have refused. They do not consider this family …" she paused, searching for words, "...a viable line."

 _Viable line_ … did that mean that they were all girls, unable to pass on the Black name? And thus considered an unworthy investment?

She felt humiliated then, for herself, her sisters, all of them, and, not knowing what to do with her feelings, turned on the older witch angrily. "How could you let this happen, Mother?"

Druella crossed her arms over her chest. "I am doing my best, Bellatrix," she said wearily. And in that moment, she felt as though she was seeing her mother as she really was: a woman on the cusp of middle age, worn down with burdens she had never prepared for and never wanted. Overwhelmed by life, by bills, by responsibilities she had to shoulder by herself.

"This is all Cygnus' fault," Bellatrix decided. "If he wasn't such a useless piece of - "

" _Please_ don't bring your father into this. He's not well."

There was pity in the older witch's eyes, for her husband and also for her child, and the sight of it made Bellatrix break down. She fell, sobbing, in an undignified pile on the floor.

"I c-can't d-co this…" she hiccoughed as her mother knelt beside her and ran a comforting hand through her dark locks.

"I know it's difficult, darling, but would you please at least meet with him? See if you can maybe find some common ground? Perhaps...you could find a way to tolerate it."

"Is that what _you_ do?" Bellatrix cried. " _Tolerate_ it?"

"That's what we all do, my dear. It's the nature of life."

* * *

Bellatrix had always been rather susceptible to guilt trips from those she cared for, so it was no surprise that the following afternoon found her seated at a window table in the Painted Dragon Teashop, across from a smiling Uncle Polly.

 _Don't think of him like that_ , Bella chastised herself. _It's beyond gross!_

"I am honored that you decided to grace me with your company today," he crooned, toying with the scone on his plate. "I must confess that I didn't believe you would come."

Trying to avoid his intense scrutiny, she poured tea into both cups and served herself a sandwich. Then, she unfolded her serviette and put in across her lap, took a few tentative bites, looked about for the proprietress, examined the fine china teapots on display, the purple dahlias artfully arranged in their vase, the delicate silver spoons on the table...and finally, inevitably, was snared by his gaze. _Merlin, say something. Anything!_

"Mother, uhh... convinced me," she stuttered, thinking that this had to be one of the most awkward moments of her life.

He laughed - seemed to find her gracelessness endearing instead of childish - and she noticed for the first time that his eyes crinkled at the corners when he was happy.

"Ah, so I know where to send my thank-you cards, then!"

Was she supposed to think he was handsome? Charming? Andromeda certainly did, but all of his favorable qualities merely left Bellatrix cold. "I...suppose," she murmured into her teacup.

"Wonderful woman, your mother!" he went on cheerfully, either oblivious to her discomfort or determined to ignore it. "A couple years behind us in school, if I recall."

 _Right._ As though she needed to be reminded of the fact that he was more than twenty years her senior. "Yes, _sir_ ," she stressed, trying, none-too-subtly, to hint at her feelings.

"Oh, do let's drop the formalities, my dear. I'll say Bellatrix, you say Pollux, and we'll be friends in no time!"

He looked at her earnestly, expectantly, as though it were the most natural thing in the world for them to be out on a date together... and, perhaps, he wasn't so bad, after all... but no! This was the wizard who had taught her to ride a broom when she was just girl. Had he been thinking about it, even then?

"Do you remember that doll you gave me for my tenth birthday?" she blurted, rather rudely. "The one with the wedding robes?"

"I -" he began, defensive, but she cut him off.

"You were planning this back then, weren't you?"

 _You sick bastard_ , was the unspoken subtext.

"Certainly not!" he protested. "You were a lovely child, of course, but it wasn't until you grew into the stunning witch I see before me now, that my...more _tender_ passions were aroused."

She nearly choked at his choice of words - it couldn't possibly be a double entendre, could it? - but his expression was so guileless that she was forced to let it pass.

"It was last year, I believe," he explained. "I accompanied your mother to one of your Quidditch games, and could not help but be impressed by your flying. The _elegance_ , the _focus_ , the _tenacity_ …" He shook his head in wonderment, and Bellatrix was flattered against her will. He certainly was not the first to fall in love after watching her performance on the pitch; even McGonagall had begrudgingly admitted that the Gryffindor team could have used someone of her considerable talents.

"Yes, I think the Wizarding Wireless Network could certainly benefit from your contributions," Pollux went on, thoughtful.

Well, that certainly caught her attention. "Would I… would I be able to work, then?" she asked hopefully, realising too late what the question implied. It seemed that some part of her had already become resigned to this marriage.

"But of course- it's the sixties, for heaven's sake!" he exclaimed. "Perhaps you could even take over the weekly Quidditch Review. My regular bloke is retiring soon."

"So... I can go around and interview the athletes? And go to matches?" she burst out, involuntarily excited.

"Well, yes. A necessary part of the job, I would imagine, though I haven't been on air myself in quite a while. Now, I produce the entertainment segments. You know, the Witching Hour, Goblin Bingo, a couple of travel shows, Murder of Crows - that's the new one, _literally_ about killer birds - International Quidditch Review, True Stories of a Retired Hitwizard, Hodgepodge Kooking Korner, The Gnome Ate My Trousers...everything that's not news, basically…" he continued on about his job, a subject of which Bellatrix knew he was quite fond, as she gazed out at the storefront of Broomstix across the street.

There, in the window, was the latest Comet model, still in its prototype phase, available only to professionals and the press. Yes, in this hypothetical future of hers, she could be the first in line for the newest designs, get the best seats in the house for any game, meet all her favorite players...

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, after all, being married to Uncle Polly. True, he _was_ incredibly old, but that also meant he wouldn't be around so very long. And perhaps they had nothing in common, but maybe then he'd be inclined to leave her to her own devices. And maybe he wouldn't even want to... do _that_... She was reasonably sure that old people weren't interested in sex, anyways…

And almost as though he had read her mind, he leaned towards her, the gesture made intimate by their already cramped quarters, and covered her hand with his.

"Bellatrix," he whispered, with dreadful urgency, "I can't bear the suspense another moment. Say you'll be my wife. Please! I beg of you!"

His clammy fingers encircled her wrist, preventing her from flinching away. From his breast pocket, he took out a black ringbox and placed it before her with the air of someone offering a bribe. Somehow, things had progressed much too fast, leaving her completely disoriented.

She swallowed, once. Twice. Looked at the box, at his hand, at his face, the face of a drowning man, then stood.

The motion was so swift that a plate full of biscuits fell and shattered, drawing a scandalized gasp from the witch behind the counter. But Bellatrix didn't care, overcome by the overwhelming need to escape.

"I... h-have to go," she stammered, grabbed her cloak, and practically ran to the door. Her hip made painful contact with one of the small tables which crowded the tearoom as she dashed past.

The back exit let out into an alley just off the main road, where empty crates were stacked high on all sides. Her painfully beating heart and sweating palms signaled panic, but she told herself sternly that she was overreacting. Why should she be terrified? Sure, it may have been rude to just run out like that, but he was hardly going to hex her, was he?

She looked about, and noticing the gilded sign of Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour in the distance, decided that would be her next stop. There was nothing like an enormous pumpkin sundae to take the edge off ; maybe she would even pop over to the house and get her sisters, take them around the shops. She let herself be calmed by the thought of a quiet afternoon in Diagon Alley with Andy and Cissy...

"Bellatrix! Wait!"

 _Oh no, he's followed me!_ she thought in panic, ducking behind some pallets to hide.

He stalked up and down the alleyway, his hard breathing drowning out the distant sounds of afternoon shoppers going about their business. After a minute or two, his footsteps faded and she sighed audibly.

"Thank Merlin!"

But there was a creak somewhere, close... _too_ close…

She clasped her hand over her mouth, swallowing a gasp, and ran, blindly, at terrifying speed.

But it was too late.

 _"Petrificus Totalus!"_

The spell hit her square in the back and she fell, face forward, into the unspeakable muck. Try as she might to move her limbs, it was impossible. She lay there, perfectly frozen.

"You never did learn any manners, my dear," Uncle Polly murmured darkly as he approached her prone form.

He stood over her for a moment, then pushed her head sideways with the tip of his boot, so that she had a perfect view of the back widow of _Magical Menagerie_. Inside, a scruffy-looking raven regarded her blankly from its cage.

"Nor any gratitude."

She looked on as the raven began to clean its feathers, trying to ignore the nauseating feeling of mud and sludge soaking into her hair.

"I'll have you know that I came here as a personal favor to you parents," Pollux informed her irritably. The tips of his boots paced restlessly in and out of her line of vision. "Only to be judged a " _sick bastard_ " and " _too old_ " by a stuck-up little brat."

 _He read my thoughts!_ Bellatrix realized in horror. _He sat there the whole time reading my thoughts and telling me what I wanted to hear!_

There was a name for that, something with an L … she tried hard to remember what it was called - anything to distract her mind from this situation - but she just couldn't grasp it. Where was Andromeda when you needed her?

He stopped right in front of her, shaking in fury, and for a moment, she was sure he was going to kick her in the face - she braced for it - but he didn't do it. Instead, he sat across her back and began to fumble with the fastenings of her robes, weighing down her ribcage so that it nearly impossible to breathe.

 _No no no no no no no no no_ , she silently prayed to any deity that may have been listening. She had managed to avoid this for years, never letting any of the gadflies which buzzed around her close enough to touch so much as the hem of her skirt. But - there was a part of her that had expected this, wasn't there? She had always had a bad feeling about Uncle Polly, _always_ … and now, this...

"I have news for you girl," he breathed in her ear, spittle hitting the delicate skin there. "This marriage is taking place whether you like it or not."

When she felt the chill of the air on the bare skin of her thighs, her mind let go of her terror and finally took its leave. It was as though she was floating high above, looking down upon the scene. Watching him mount her petrified form as she lay in the mud.

"The dowry your parents will receive from mine will be enough to keep a roof over your sisters heads for a _very_ long time," he rasped, fingers bruising the flesh of her hip.

 _The first time._

 _Was it really less painful than expected, or had she just gone numb?_ Would this have been even worse on her wedding night? There would surely have been... expectations. Other than just laying there.

The raven in the window had finished its ablutions and watched her once more. Was she deluding herself, or was there a hint of pity in its beady gaze?

"You should be happy to be able to contribute something …" he grunted as he finished "... useful."

He lay atop her for a moment, crushing her as he caught his breath, then fastened his robes, and stood. The whole thing hadn't lasted three minutes. Too quick to really comprehend, but long enough to break her down completely.

"Do try and stay out of trouble, Bellatrix," he chided lightly, as though nothing had transpired between them. "I wouldn't want anything to happen to our child."

 _Oh, gods, please please please just leave already_ , she screamed inside her head, but then what he said caught up with her.

 _Wait...child? What child?_

"Oh, silly me, how could I forget…"

He pulled out his wand and cast a spell, its pale yellow tendrils reaching out to wrap around her middle, sinking into her flesh.

"You know what that is, I think."

She did know, as a matter of fact. Centuries of inbreeding between the old pureblood families had resulted in less than reliable fertility, so a spell had been developed to ensure that copulation would result in an heir.

"I'll owl our families your acceptance, then, shall I?" he tossed out, his nonchalant tone making her hate him more than anything else he had done. Before he walked away, he carefully pulled down her dress, hiding her impropriety and his crime.

It was over. She lay there for what seemed like hours, waiting for the _petrificus totalus_ to wear off, acutely aware of his cum slowly oozing down her thigh, unable to wipe it away.

The rain came, flooding down upon her and fading away in an instant, as summer rain was wont to do. It drenched her robes, her hair, and dripped down the side of her face, across the bridge of her nose, like tears.

Twilight had already settled over London when she picked herself up from the muck and Apparated home. The house was dark, save for the flickering of a candle in an upstairs window. Her sisters had clearly waited up, eager for details about her meeting, but she couldn't face them now.

She didn't think she could face them ever again. How could she show them that the sister they admired for her courage and independence could be reduced so easily to a broodmare, an object, a nothing?

Opening the front door as quietly as she could, she crept across the hall, hoping against hope that her parents were away, and Kreacher preoccupied. Andy had always told her she'd be the first to escape this place, but that wasn't going to happen now. All of her hopes for the future had withered and died in the span of a moment, leaving nothing but emptiness in its wake.

Moving of their own volition, her feet carried up the stairs, past the floor she shared with her sisters, until she reached the hatch that led to the roof. Outside, the rain had started up again; it soaked her as she climbed the slope to her favorite spot, the one where, on a clear day, you could catch a glimpse of the sea.

But the horizon was a just a blur in the gloom that came right before nightfall, when you couldn't quite see the stars, and the streetlights were just beginning to flicker to life.

Her stomach churned in knots, and she brought her hand to rest against it for just a moment, offering comfort.

"Sorry," she whispered to her unwilling passenger, as she rose and approached the ledge.

The sounds of frantic scrambling could be heard below and in a moment, the hatch burst open.

"Bella!" Narcissa yelled.

But it was too late. She was at the edge, and nothing, not even Circe herself, could stop her now.

She pitched forward, their horrified "NO"s ringing in her ears, and fell.


	15. The Probability of Death

Wow! All of your support has been incredible! Thank you so much!

The end of this chapter is basically some of my random speculations about how time travel works in this universe. If that bores you, you can safely skip all of it.

* * *

"Have you seen it yet?" a Ravenclaw third year whispered to her companions, standing huddled behind Hermione in the long queue that led down the second-floor corridor.

"You _really_ reckon he fought You Know Who and lived?" another replied, skeptically.

"Sounds a bit far fetched, if you asked me," the third pitched in. "I, for one, need further evidence before I can decide one way or the other."

"Well, it wouldn't be the first time he survived the Killing Curse, mate-"

"And you have to admit, Diggory's death _was_ suspicious..."

"Potter wouldn't have named names if he was lying, would he? Malfoy and his friends are probably sharpening their knives as we speak."

They'd held out talking about it for quite a while, but had eventually succumbed to the irresistible temptation. The _Quibbler_ article, published the day before, was already on everyone's lips.

Of course, Umbridge had swooped down upon them in the Great Hall mere _seconds_ after Harry received the first edition, and had swiftly banned the _Quibbler_ from the entire school. Consequently, there wasn't a soul in all of Hogwarts that hadn't read it by now, and the High Inquisitor, frustrated at her failure to control every facet of what the students did, learned, and thought, was conducting an investigation.

Hermione had received her summons in first-period Arithmancy, which she took alone, so she didn't know whether the boys had been up to see the horrible woman yet, but she hoped not. Umbridge had already gone through three dozen students, and it was barely 10 o'clock in the morning. Hermione had noticed that more than a few left the office with ghastly mysterious symptoms - evidence that the Weasley twins had been plying their trade in secret, despite her threats. But she couldn't really bring herself to be angry: if their Skiving Snackboxes were helping students escape that pink toad's clammy grasp, well, who could fault them?

It did make her wonder though. For every student that left the office with purple boils, another five left crying - what was Umbridge doing to them in there? Most of them had nothing to hide, but she, Hermione, was the very reason that article had been published at all. She was the one who had set up the interview with Harry in the Three Broomsticks, blackmailed Skeeter into writing the piece, and convinced Luna to have it published in her dad's ridiculous magazine. _Not too shabby for the perfect little Gryffindor bookworm_ , she thought, self-satisfied.

But her gloating was cut short as she saw Cho Chang leave the office and make her way down the hall. The Ravenclaw walked past, head held high, without sparing her a single glance, as Hermione swallowed the lump in her throatfought the urge to turn around and watch the girl's retreating back.

They hadn't spoken since Valentine's day - the day of Harry and Cho's disastrous date, the day of the interview. Impossibly, Cho had gotten it in her head that Harry fancied his scruffy Gryffindor best-friend, and had stormed out of Madame Puddifoot's in jealousy. But for Hermione, it was truly laughable to think of herself as an object of anyone's affections. The only dates she'd ever had were with the study-schedule and with the library, a circumstance she hadn't truly minded until this summer.

The worst, the absolute _worst_ part, was that Harry couldn't even find the compassion to understand why Cho was so upset, to sympathize with her grief, to treat her kindly. He had lost his parents as a baby, and had never had the time to know them before they passed. What he felt for them was not the same as what Cho or Hermione had felt. Nothing, in his eyes, was more important than his epic, life-and-death battle with Voldemort. Which, perhaps, was why Hermione had said nothing all this time; she didn't trust him to offer comfort.

But still, she found herself advising Harry how to win back the lovely Ravenclaw. Part of it was a genuine wish to see two miserable people find a little joy, and another part was something like the pleasure of picking at a nearly-healed scab to feel the sting all over again.

"Hermione Granger!" Filch read out from his scroll, scanning the line of students with contempt. Mrs. Norris, equally unimpressed, stood sentinel at his feet.

"Here!" she called out, stepping forward as he crossed out her name with an irritated huff.

"Get in there," he growled, jerking his head toward the door, which stood slightly ajar.

Taking a moment to gather her wits, she stepped through to the Defense Against the Dark Arts Office, momentarily stunned at the sight which greeted her. Harry wasn't wrong; it _did_ look like a Pygmy Puff had vomited doilies all over the place.

"Hem hem," Umbridge coughed daintily, snapping Hermione out of her horrified examination of the multicolor kitten plates which decorated the walls. "Miss Granger, is it?" the woman said in that saccharine tone of hers, like a syrupy drink whose sweetness couldn't quite disguise the flavor of cyanide.

 _You know_ exactly _who I am_ , Hermione thought with a scowl. _And if you don't, you will soon._

"Do have a seat, my dear," Umbridge simpered, gesturing her into a little chintz armchair in front of her desk. "Would you like some tea? Biscuits?"

A generous tea service was laid out between them, with all manner of snacks and confections. Though tempting, the abundance made Hermione deeply suspicious.

"No.. thank you," she refused carefully, "I...I'm not feeling well."

Umbridge narrowed her eyes, clearly annoyed. "Yes... there seems to be a lot of that going around."

They fell into silence, the older witch glaring daggers at Hermione, tapping her stubby fingers impatiently against the curve of her teacup. _She's trying to intimidate me into blurting out information_ , Hermione realized. Her stomach was already twisted in anxious knots, and, if she were honest with herself, she had to admit that this was a tactic that usually worked on her. McGonagall certainly used it to great effect on all of her Gryffindors.

But this was no Professor McGonagall: this was a twisted, vicious toad of a woman who would love nothing better than to find an excuse to expel her, and Hermione refused to give her the satisfaction. It took every ounce of her self control, but she summoned up an insincere smile and looked around the office casually.

"Your plates are lovely, Professor," she said, at last, the mockery barely concealed in her tone. "Very...original."

Umbridge crooked her head, the gears obviously turning in her brain as she realized that the girl before wouldn't break so easily. "Why, thank you Miss Granger. Let's get right into it then." Drawing out a parchment and quill, Umbridge laid them down neatly. Then she withdrew a pair of winged pink reading glasses from her robe and perched them on her nose. "Are you now, or have you at any point, been in possession of the magazine, _The Quibbler_?"

"No, Professor," Hermione replied tonelessly.

The older woman gave her another piercing look, as though trying to peer into her mind. But Hermione had already honed her ability to know when people were performing spells on her, and she sensed from the Defense Professor's magical aura that she wasn't a particularly powerful witch. Even if she and Cho never spoke again, she would always be grateful to the Ravenclaw for what she had taught her about the nature of magic.

Umbridge made some note on her parchment and proceeded to her next question.

"Have you read the interview that Harry Potter gave to _The Quibbler_ regarding the events that took place during the last challenge of the Triwizard Tournament?"

"I haven't, Professor."

"Well, I find that hard to believe," Umbridge hissed, dropping her indifferent facade for a moment. "Considering that you are well known as one of Potters closest confederates."

"He's in my year in Gryffindor, yes," Hermione replied evasively.

Umbridge made another note on her parchment, then decided to try a different tack. "I've taken the liberty of looking into you, Miss Granger, and I couldn't help but notice that your parents don't work at the Ministry. What exactly _is_ it that they do?"

Hermione swallowed, looking down at her clasped hands in her lap. The knuckles had gone white. _She doesn't know about what happened...does she? She couldn't! She's probably just fishing for leverage._

Telling herself to calm down, she said, "They're dentists."

"Dentists?" A tiny, cruel smirk crooked the corner of the woman's mouth. "Ah, so you are muggle-born."

 _So she doesn't know, then. What a relief._ "Yes. Is that relevant?"

"It is certainly _curious_..." Umbridge drawled, leafing through some of the scrolls on her desk, picking out one. "Well, your academic record is certainly impressive. One wonders how someone of your… _heritage_ was able to assimilate so well into wizarding life. Quite a world apart, I imagine."

 _Wow, never heard that one before_ , Hermione thought snidely. _It's like all of these twits read from the same Bigotry 101 handbook._

"I take my education very seriously."

"I'm sure that you do, Miss Granger. Of course there have been comments submitted to the Board hinting that certain students are being held to a lower standard in light of ... their lack of _contextual_ knowledge."

"I see." _Whatever you do, don't reach over and strangle her,_ Hermione told herself. _You're better than this. They all want to see you fail and you prove them wrong every single day!_

"Indeed." Umbridge smiled coldly. "Certain parties clearly feel that it is unfair to expect those who didn't grow up in our world to perform to the same level as everyone else. What do you think of that, Miss Granger?"

The woman was clearly baiting her, but Hermione would be damned before she rose to it. Looking Umbridge right in the eye, she said, "I believe in equality. I don't think anybody should be treated unfairly or _abuse their power for personal gain_."

If the Professor understood the double meaning behind her words, she showed no sign. Perhaps she truly believed that her actions were justified in the name of the greater good.

"Very noble sentiments, Miss Granger. Sentiments that the Ministry shares, you'll be glad to know. That is why I am here. To ensure that those who have been slighted and overlooked by the current administration finally get the recognition they deserve. And to weed out those who have been unfairly riding on the coattails of their… _special status_."

Riding on the coattails of their special status… if _that_ didn't describe the entitled Slytherin purebloods she had to suffer on a daily basis, Hermione didn't know what did. Of course she doubted that the Ministry, sitting cozy in the pocket of Lucius Malfoy, saw it quite like that.

"Take Mr. Potter for instance," Umbridge went on, casually. "A mediocre student, with poor prospects, clearly acting out from a desperate need for attention. Enabled in his bad behavior by the doting staff members who pity him for the tragic demise of his parents...

"That is..." _fucking bullshit_ "...one way of looking at it."

"Oh, don't misunderstand, Miss Granger," Umbridge tittered. "I have sympathy for Mr. Potter - one can see how he could end up in this state. Orphaned, alone, raised by _Muggles_. Can you _imagine_? However, the security of the Ministry is my first priority, and Mr. Potter, misguided though he may be, threatens that security."

By the end of this little speech, Hermione was positively seething. Insulting her blood status was one thing, but insulting her friends? The Gryffindor in her wanted to hex the smug look off the woman's face (Ron, God knows, would have already tried) but she was the level headed one, always. Losing control would only make her - and, by extension, all Muggleborns - look bad.

Instead, she dropped her wand in her bag where it wouldn't tempt her, and stood. "Is that all, Professor? Only, I would like to make it back to Arithmancy before the end of lecture."

"Yes, Miss Granger, that is all," Umbridge snapped, irritated at her failed provocations. Hermione was already at the door when the witch continued. " _However_ , should you feel the need to be more forthcoming in the future, my door is always open. And may I just say that it would not be remiss of you to demonstrate a little more respect for our customs. I'm not sure how it is among _your_ people, but in the wizarding world we value order and integrity."

" _Integrity_?" Hermione cried in disbelief as she spun around. _This, from the woman who is torturing students in detention for so much as coughing out of turn._

"Yes, Miss Granger. _Integrity_." Umbridge smiled in absolute self-righteousness.

It was a miracle, really, that somebody with such enormous hypocrisy managed not to explode, Hermione thought. But what had she expected, really? That villains sat around twirling their mustaches, delighting in their naughtiness? No, she was coming to understand that everyone felt justified in what they did, no matter how depraved. Even Voldemort probably thought he was performing a public service.

"And before I forget," Umbridge said, "here is your essay on the theoretical application of the Expelliarmus Charm, with a few of my comments."

Hermione grabbed the outstretched parchment, riddled with red, and scanned it with building fury. Rationally, she knew that Umbridge was going for the low blows because she wouldn't give up any information, but this - this was too much to tolerate!

" _E minus_?" she burst out angrily. "But it was perfect! Twice the required length with at least a dozen sources! I even included the most recent research from Defense Quarterly-"

"Yes that's right, but the assignment asked you to focus on the _theoretical_ applications, yet you discuss the _practical_ applications," Umbridge explained with a nasty glint in her eye. "And in a way that suggests to me that you've actually _performed_ this spell, which is troubling, as you know that performing defensive spells unsupervised is grounds for expulsion, as per Educational Decree No. 17, revised clause 2b."

"This is… it's completely ridiculous!" Hermione gasped.

There was _no_ distinction between the theoretical and the practical applications of the Expelliarmus charm, and it was a spell that even most of the third years had already mastered. Unable to make Hermione confess to any rule breaking, this horrible woman was punishing her in any way she could. The unfairness of it all appalled her.

"Clearly your other Professors have failed to instill in you the importance of following directions. But not to worry - we will soon correct that! Your days of being coddled and are over, Miss Granger!"

Hermione closed her eyes and prayed for patience. _This doesn't matter, in the larger scheme of things,_ she told herself. _There is only one thing that matters now: changing the timeline._

When she looked at the Professor again, Hermione's gaze was blank and cold, and it left the older witch deeply unsettled, though she did not show it.

"Good day, Professor Umbridge," Hermione said, and left the office without a backward glance. The bell rang, signaling the end of first period, and as she walked through the castle, the halls filled with students rushing to their next lesson. The boys were probably heading over to Divination. Fortunately for Hermione, who had given up the subject long ago, she had and couple of hours free before lunch.

"Watch out!" someone yelled, and Hermione barely had time to step back as a blonde-haired blurr leaped in front of her, viciously whacking the air with a stack of books.

"L-Luna?" Hermione sputtered in shock, as the other girl concluded her battle with the invisible foe. "What's going on!?"

"It's a Wrackspurt!" Luna exclaimed, panting. "It was about to get you! I saw it!"

"Err...it's a _what_?"

"A wrackspurt. They're these little invisible creatures that live in your head. You see, they come in through your ears and - "

"Actually, nevermind." Hermione held up hand to forestall an explanation guaranteed to leave her more confused that she already was. "Ummm...what are you wearing?"

"Oh these?" Luna asked, taking off her kaleidoscope glasses as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "They're Spectrespecs! They help you see Wrackspurts, and good thing too, because that one had its eye on you."

"Did it, really?" Hermione asked politely, trying her best to humor Ginny's strange friend.

"Oh, yes, they'll hide wherever they can," Luna explained excitedly, "But they especially love to live in gloomy, dark places…"

 _Gloomy and dark places like my brain_ , Hermione though with a grin. "So what's going on, Luna? Besides, um...wrackspurts, I mean."

"Oh, I'm just heading over to Divination. I'm sure it's going to be twice as good now that Firenze is teaching! Are you coming?"

Hermione couldn't help but roll her eyes. After the morning she'd had, Divination was the last thing she wanted to think about. "Certainly not! Divination is a load of rubbish, as far as I'm concerned. I mean, if gazing vapidly into a crystal ball for hours ever helped anybody, I would _love_ to know about it!"

Luna cocked her her head. "You are a very curious person, Hermione."

"What do you mean?" she snapped, more defensive than she intended. The meeting with Umbridge had really put her on edge.

"Well, you told me once that Arithmancy was your favorite subject," the Ravenclaw explained airily, as though that answered the question.

"It is. What does that matter?"

"Did you know that Arithmancy and Divination were once the same discipline? People used to think both were just a bunch of nonsense, but Arithmancy was able to gain some legitimacy by using Numerology and Astronomy, which were already established fields. Divination remained as the more theoretical branch -"

" 'Theoretical' meaning wild, unproven speculation?" Hermione cut in, annoyed. How did Luna always manage to suck her into these never-ending, nonsensical discussions? "Numerology - and, by extension, Arithmancy - is a field thoroughly rooted in _logic_ and verifiable _facts_. It's a _real_ science."

"Necromancy was once a "real science" too, around the same time that Transfiguration was considered far-fetched and unrealistic. New discoveries are made all the time. Ideas come in and out of fashion. It doesn't make them wrong - it's just that their moment hasn't come yet."

Hermione scoffed. "The moment for Nargles? And Crumple-Horned Snorkacks?"

"Exactly!" The blonde witch shot her a beatific smile.

"Ok, fine," Hermione sighed, "but we're talking about predicting the future here! I mean it's one thing to put together probability charts with Arithmancy, and a completely different thing to look at some old tea leaves and predict somebody's death!"

"Well, that's not a hard prediction, actually," Luna mused. "Everyone dies. So the probability of that is 100 percent."

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, her brain suddenly on fire. "But, of course…it's just a question of _when_." The moment of inspiration, of understanding, rocked her like a seismic wave. It was the best, the sweetest high.

 _This must be what sex feels like_ , Hermione thought.

"Hmm?" The Ravenclaw scrunched her nose; for once, she was the one confused.

But Hermione didn't have time to explain. "Oh Luna, you ridiculous, brilliant, crazy genius!" she cried. "Thank you! _Thank you_ so much!" Planting a sloppy kiss on the other girl's' forehead, Hermione dashed down the corridor and took the grand staircase two steps at a time.

Students leapt aside as she careened down the hallway madly, in search of her lab - that is, the broom closet on the fourth floor she had magically equipped for her purposes. This is it! This is finally it! she thought, dizzy with excitement as she fumbled with the wards. Her hands were shaking so badly that it took her a full five minutes to finally get inside.

The room wasn't much more than a matchbox, every square inch of wall space covered in notes and diagrams, and at the end, on the counter, her pride and joy…

The Rockwood-Mintumble Experiment, which she had painstakingly duplicated from the Department of Mysteries. While they had a hummingbird, repeating an endless cycle of reincarnation, she had a Salamander - hatching out of a tiny blue flame, dying away with the fire, being reborn. It was a delicate system, running through a complex Arithmancy set with each life-span, and then restarting from the beginning.

But there was one particular point that interested Hermione the most: that infinitesimal moment between death and rebirth when the little creature did not exist. That point was called Gamp's Continuity Paradox because it violated the cardinal rule of Elemental Transfiguration: that life cannot be created from nothing. So, whence came the Salamander and the hummingbird?

The Department of Mysteries had no idea. But Hermione did. And Judith Mintumble likely knew it too. " _The hourglass - it's got two parts_ ," she'd said. " _Because there has to balance in everything_."

Balance. Because the probability of death was 100 percent.

But _existence_ … existence was a coin-toss. Sometimes the Salamander was born again, and sometimes it wasn't. The human eye, however, only observed the moments when the coin landed heads - choosing life - while all the times the coin landed tails, there was just an empty glass vessel. The unbroken life-cycle was an illusion. The reality was pure chance.

Or, such was the case in the controlled environment of the experiment, where initial conditions were the same every time. The real world was messy, with a host of intervening factors that skewed the results one way or another. The only way to achieve relative parity of outcomes in the timeline was to go back far enough. Maybe even past the Threshold...

Suddenly, Hermione wondered: _Is that why Eloise went back 500 years?_ Everyone had always assumed it was an accident, but what if it was...intentional?

Shaking the thought, Hermione grabbed a spare sheet of parchment and began to write. If she was going to flip the coin on her mother's life until it landed heads, she'd need _a lot_ more Time Turners.

* * *

Reviews are greatly appreciated!

Some notes:

You know when you think you've hit rock bottom...and then later, you realize that you couldn't' even _see_ rock bottom from where you were? That's Bellatrix right now (in 1969). She has so, so much further to go before she's even remotely ready for Voldemort.

Also, it truly pains me to say this, but there's no way Hermione and Bellatrix can meet before the point at which they are supposed to meet. Which wont be for several more chapters. Sorry!


	16. Killer Instinct Pt 1

I can't believe this story has over 100 followers and 60 reviews! So much thanks to everyone!

This is Part 1 of a chapter that got so long I had to split it into two parts. It's been a while since I updated, so I figured I'd post it anyways while I finish up the rest.

Notes:

Someone submitted a comment to say that the warning for Chapter 14 was misleading/indirect, and did not prepare them for the rape that took place towards the end. I will certainly include more detailed warnings from now on, but would also like to remind readers that this fic has an M rating and will contain difficult, triggering, and violent content in the future. I usually err on the side of "implied" violence because I don't like writing it, but sometimes it's unavoidable for the sake of the plot.

That said, it seems like a lot of people feel that what happened to Bellatrix is going to push her right into the waiting arms of Voldemort, and I just don't agree. The First War doesn't even get going until 1970, and I don't see someone as young as she is turning into a fanatic (yet), especially since she has more reason to hate pure-blood customs than most.

I won't answer any more questions right now, it will just spoil the story!

* * *

1971.

The problem with Muggle towns, Bellatrix thought, was that one never knew where to apparate. A nearby forest was usually a decent option for avoiding unsuspecting witnesses, but in _this_ particular town, all signs of vegetation seemed to have been exterminated long ago.

She wondered what sort of creatures would want to efface a lovely scenic valley and put a monstrosity of concrete and noxious fumes in its place. Surely, the Muggles were some sort of death cult, taking over the entire countryside with their terrifying moving machines and their dismal sprawling settlements. She'd had to settle for walking from the river, which had long turned to brown sludge.

It was August. Back in London, autumn leaves had already begun to drift through the streets, but here, in Spinner's End, only plastic scraps tumbled between the run-down terraced houses. An occasional quiver of a curtain, a few stray cats, and an old woman knitting on her stoop were the only signs of life as Bellatrix walked past, conspicuous despite her carefully-Transfigured Muggle overcoat. They clearly weren't used to strangers here.

Down the street, she spotted a scrawny little boy kneeling in on the pavement, playing marbles by himself. He glared at her suspiciously as she approached.

"I'm looking for the Prince residence," she informed him, taking in his oversize jumper and filthy hair with a small pang of pity.

"You mean the _Snape_ residence?" he countered. "That's my dad. He's at work, though."

 _Excellent. The fewer Muggles I have to speak to, the better._ "As it happens, I'm here for your mother."

The boy looked surprised at that, but before he could speak, the front door creaked open and a woman's head peaked out.

"Miss Black? Is that you? Oh, please come in," she said, her voice a near whisper. As she hurried Bellatrix inside, the woman peered at the neighboring windows, as though afraid that someone might see.

"I… I got your l-letter," the witch stuttered, wiping her hands nervously down the front of her frayed housedress. Her eyes moved from object to object, never once landing on Bellatrix. "I'm sorry you couldn't come through the Floo… but, well, my husband…"

"It's no problem," Bellatrix reassured her insincerely, not knowing why she cared. "The walk was… fine."

She noticed that the windows had been plastered over with newsprint, leaving the room shadowed, save for the weak, unnatural glare of a Muggle tablelamp. Bellatrix had, of course, known that Eileen Prince was married to a Muggle, had known that there would be no Apparition, no Floo, no magic performed in the home at all. But she hadn't expected... _this_.

The moth-eaten armchairs, the grime on the floor, the small pile of beer bottles next to the sofa, the sowing somebody had abandoned, trying to fit yet another patch onto an old pair of trousers… the story all these things told made her want to avert her gaze in vicarious shame.

Eileen watched this inspection with growing discomfort. "Would you...would you like some tea?" she mumbled, and, without waiting for a response, hurried to the adjoining kitchen.

Bellatrix followed, and, seeing her host occupied by some Muggle contraption in the corner, took a seat at the table. The cloying smell of cigarettes lingered heavy in the air, attacking her senses and sticking in the back of her throat. _Merlin, what a dump_ , she thought, eyeing the grubby countertops and the pile of unwashed dishes. Though, perhaps it wasn't right to judge, seeing as her place was a dump too. But at the very least it wasn't a _Muggle_ dump.

A loud _clang_ drew her from her thoughts as Eileen fumbled the kettle and dropped it in the sink. "So stupid…" she muttered to herself, halfheartedly mopping the spill with a dirty dishrag. Though it took her a while, eventually she managed to bring over a pot and a couple of mugs.

The rim of the cup was chipped and the tea was quite weak, but Bellatrix forced herself to take a few polite sips. She didn't want to make the other woman uncomfortable; it would just compromise the deal, if, in fact, there was a deal to be made. They sat in silence, Eileen compulsively tracing the tabletop with her spider-like digits.

"You had some items you wanted to show me?" Bellatrix asked at last, trying to keep her tone neutral and calm.

But, still, the other witch nearly jumped from her seat at the sound, squinting at Bellatrix as though she had forgotten that she was there. "Oh," she gulped, "Oh yes, let me just…"

She went back to the living room, looked about for a while, and returned with a cardboard box. "It's just a few things I have left over from my parents, I don't know if they're valuable…" Placing the box on the table, she removed the items within, carefully placing each before Bellatrix. "There's some old books on Wandlore, I thought, m-maybe, they might be interesting to you..." she rambled, the quiver in her voice belying her hopefulness.

Bellatrix closed her eyes in irritation. She hated it when clients watched her appraise the merchandise, especially when the merchandise was worthless. "You'll need to give me some time to examine everything."

"I wouldn't normally want to part with family heirlooms, Miss Black - you understand, I'm still proud to be a Prince!" Eileen cried, defensive, perhaps feeling the weight of her visitor's judgement. But her demeanor changed on a dime, misery clouding her sallow features. "Despite...despite everything…"

 _Well, what did you expect, you bloody idiot?_ Bellatrix wanted to say. She researched all her clients before meeting them, to figure out which angle she would need to work, and thus knew that Eileen had been disowned by the Princes for marrying her Muggle. Disowned and abandoned to raise her child in squalor. Just desserts, some would say.

"Of course."

"It's just that, my boy - you saw him playing outside? - loves Gobstones too, just like I did at his age, but he looks so much like his father... well, last week, my boy got his Hogwarts letter…" she trailed off, seeming to lose track of her thought.

"You must have been proud," Bellatrix prompted.

"Oh, yes! I was so happy!" she exclaimed, and for a moment her face was transformed by a genuine smile. "But, we're...well, it's been a rough few years, you see, what with the Ford plant closing down, my husband out of work for so long...and the roof needs fixing, and there's the wood rot, too…"

Bellatrix crooked her head. "So, your husband is still unemployed? Because your son seems to think otherwise."

"Well, I don't want to worry him, you know. And Tobias is out there looking, I'm sure," she said, nodding earnestly at her guest.

 _Yeah, that, or he's at the pub_ , Bellatrix couldn't help but think.

Just then, her eyes settled on the woman's neck, encircled with marks - the dull grey of bruises covered over with makeup. And suddenly, all the pieces began to fall into place: the stuttering, the fear, the memory loss, the filth. Yes, she'd met her fair share of these people during her stretch at St. Mungo 's. Some had been tormented for so long that they had even lost their magic. She wondered if that was why this woman did even the simplest of tasks by hand. It made her furious, that a witch - and a pureblood, at that! - could be brought to this state by a Muggle. Were they so envious of the power of magic that they had to beat it out of those who were gifted with it? Why, _why_ , was the world full of people who saw something vibrant and lovely, whose first impulse was to grind it into the dirt?

 _It would be so easy to kill him_ , she thought, her blood boiling. _Hell, I'd be doing her and her kid a favor!_

"Is there...is there anything here you'd like?" Eileen tentatively cut in, forcing Bellatrix out of a rather gory fantasy. She forced herself to take a deep breath; it wouldn't do to completely lose it in front of a client.

But this situation had really caught her unawares - was making her feel things she hadn't felt in a long time. Her usual clients were lonely old wizards wanting to trade some knick-knacks for a moment in her company, or dodgy back-alley characters selling goods of dubious origin. And she was an expert at playing them, whether with charm or intimidation; her acquisitions over the past year were valued at over ten thousand galleons, a fact of which she was quite proud. Better yet, Borgin payed her a handsome commission on everything she brought in, and she lost no sleep over all the people she had cheated out of their valuables.

But, looking at this woman's face, etched with desperation, she knew that the next few weeks would be full of sleepless nights and long appointments with her favorite bar-stool at the Leaky Cauldron. "Well, Mrs. Snape, you've got some interesting pieces here," she declared, giving nothing away with her tone.

"R-really?"

Bellatrix took another look at the items before her: there was some fine Goblin-made silver, a few vials of rare Potions ingredients (all long expired), a heap of old books, and what looked like a shriveled hand mounted on wood. She picked up the latter, examining it closely.

 _No! It couldn't be...could it_? Unlikely - nay, impossible - as it seemed, she had a sneaking suspicion that she was holding the infamous Hand of Glory, believed to have been lost in the 1612 Goblin Rebellions. She had accumulated a bit of experience authenticating historic artifacts, and this one seemed to look, smell, and feel legitimate. Turning it over, she saw the faded insignia of the maker - Bagnok the Bloodthirsty, 1581 - and her suspicion shifted to certainty.

Even if it _was_ a fake, it was an exceptionally good one, and the store could probably still sell it for thousands. Clearly, Eileen had no idea what she had in her possession, and one of the first things Bellatrix had learned on the job was to never let the seller on to the true value of their goods. So, she casually put down the Hand of Glory - _the Hand of Glory!_ \- and picked up one of the dusty tomes.

"Some of these books are first editions. And the silver is first-rate."

"Oh, Merlin, I was _so_ afraid it would be worthless…" Eileen sighed in relief. "If you could possibly give me 100 for it, I would be so, so grateful."

 _100 Galleons._ It was roughly the cost of supplies for a first-time Hogwarts student, she realized. This witch was giving up everything valuable that she had for a pittance, just to send her boy to school.

It was a pity, really, that it was so much easier to lose your innocence than your conscience, Bellatrix thought, pulling out her coin-purse. "This is...700 gold," she said, surprising even herself. " And it's not charity either," she hastened to add. "I'm giving you a fair price."

True, the items were really worth five times that, but it was much more than she would have offered anyone else. Borgin would still get the Hand of Glory, she would still get her commision, and a magical child (half-blood though he may be) would get his schooling. Usually, there was more than enough misery to go around for everyone to get seconds, but every once in a blue moon, it was win-win.

"I...I don't know what to say…" Eileen whispered, her voice heavy with unshed tears. She reached her skeletal hand across the table and grasped Bellatrix's hand tightly. "You don't know how much this means to us. _Thank you_."

Bellatrix snatched her hand away, as if burned. She _loathed_ being touched; it never failed to make her deeply uncomfortable. "Well, yes...um," she mumbled, dropping the merchandise into the box and shrinking it as quickly as she could manage. "It was good doing business with you... owl me if you have anything else I should look at." She stood, nodded at the witch awkwardly, and rushed to the door.

It was a relief to feel the fresh air on her face, to escape...whatever it was she'd just done. The little boy called out to her as she ran past, but she didn't pause to hear him.

Apparating from a blind alley, she was soon back in London, back in the real world. Having completed her one and only Friday appointment, Bellatrix decided that she'd go deliver the goods and then call off the rest of the day. Andromeda was meeting her in the Cauldron in the afternoon, giving her just enough time to submit a report and run a few errands.

As she suspected, Borgin was immensely pleased with her find. Unlike Burke, a consummate collector who cared about provenance and historical accuracy, Borgin was a businessman. If an article could pass muster enough to sell for the price of the original, well, in his eyes, it was just as good as the real thing. To find out the truth, they'd have to hire a Goblin appraiser, which was impossible, since the Goblins would likely reclaim the artifact on behalf of their kind.

The finder's fee she received was substantial, better even than the high rates he usually gave her. She realized that Borgin paid her so well because of her family name - and the fact that he was a bit sweet on her - but he had never been inappropriate, save for a few expensive gifts, so she paid it no mind.

It was funny how things turned out, she thought, weaving through the early shoppers on her way to Gringotts. When she was in school she'd never have imagined that she'd end up working for an antique store specializing in Dark artifacts. Her mother had accused her of becoming a common shop-girl, but Bellatrix actually spent no time on the premises. Though it wasn't very glamorous, or respected, or promising, she didn't hate her work: tracking down leads on new merchandise, researching artifacts, negotiating with all kinds of black marketeers, grifters, and thieves… it was sometimes rather exciting. She'd had the option of a few dead-end posts in the Ministry, mostly pushing paper, but figured they wouldn't appreciate someone who hated rules and regulations, was completely incapable of maintaining even the most superficial of social relations, and preferred to come in at noon, disheveled and hung-over as all hell.

But the best part about Borgin & Burkes, by far, was the money. And the best part of the money was that day once a month when she came into Gringotts and deposited gold to her mother's account. Druella had never mentioned it, but seeing her sisters walk around in new robes was enough for Bellatrix. When they were children, she and Andy had lain awake long nights, whispering to each other about the future, dreaming of escape. There had been so many crazy plots - from living in the forest and hunting for sustenance, to getting filthy rich selling their own line of Love Potions - but the mundane reality seemed even more strange, perhaps because she'd never believed it was possible. But somehow, she had managed to crawl out from under her father's thumb, had acquired her own place and an income, and was about to bring Andromeda to live with her.

Concluding her business at Gringotts, Bellatrix made her way to the Leaky Cauldron, hoping to down a few measures of Firewhisky before her sister showed up, but Andromeda - as though she had known of her intention and was trying to spite her - was already there, sitting in the corner with her nose in a book. And, Bellatrix couldn't help but notice, that next to her on the bench sat a small pile of suitcases and a silver cage. Its occupant glared daggers at her as she approached.

"Oh Merlin's balls, don't tell me you're bringing that bloody bird!" she exclaimed, marching over to the seated girl. It wasn't the best greeting, true, since they hadn't spoken in several weeks - but what was the point of family if you had to bother with pleasantries?

Andromeda sighed, carefully replaced her bookmark, and looked up. "And what am I supposed to do with her, then? I can't leave her at the house, can I?"

"You _know_ I hate animals!" Bellatrix snapped.

"Please, Bella, she's really quiet and well-behaved!" _Ahh...and there were those puppy-dog eyes._ They got her every time.

"Fine," she huffed. "But I'm not cleaning up any bird-shit, and if I hear _so much as a peep_ when I'm trying to sleep, we're having owl curry for breakfast. Got it?"

The younger witch rolled her eyes. "Yes, _alright_ , Miss Grumpy Pants! What the hell's gotten into you?"

"Nothing," Bellatrix sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Just a long week at work. Come on, let's get going," she said, as gently as she could manage.

It wasn't Andy's fault, after all, that the morning's conversation had thrown her into an emotional tailspin. She tried to do the breathing exercises they'd taught her in 's to control her anger - and it sort of worked - as they made their way through the streets of Diagon Alley to her apartment.

"Uh, Bella…" her sister prompted carefully. "Isn't there a shorter route?"

There _was_ , as a matter of fact, but it took her right past the place where _The Bad Thing_ happened, and she never walked by there under any circumstances. "This is the route I prefer," she said repressively.

More than two years had passed since her "accident" - and almost sixteen months since they discharged her from the Hephaestus Moon Ward for the Emotionally Disturbed. Suicide was extremely frowned upon in the magical world, likely because there were so few wizards to begin with, so the sentence she'd been forced to endure was quite lengthy. Months upon months trapped in a room with the insane, the pathetic, and the half-witted… she was still surprised she hadn't completely lost her mind in there, especially since she'd only been allowed a handful of visits. But Cissy had written nearly every day, and Andromeda had sent books; these were the things that had kept her going, even at her lowest point.

Her mother had been appalled when she found out what had happened to Bellatrix, and, several months into her incarceration, had written to the Wizengamot to file charges. Unfortunately, the accused was a beloved radio personality with a sterling reputation, boundless charisma, and an extensive fortune. Bellatrix was interviewed by Aurors who none-too-subtly suggested that she was lying or delusional, and a scant few weeks later, the Ministry filed a counter-charge against her for murder.

They accused her of intentionally trying to end her pregnancy by jumping, which (though true) was unprovable, and also not illegal. But the point had been made: Pollux had friends in high places, and he was perfectly willing to drag her through the gutter again if she didn't keep quiet. When Walburga and Orion decided to wash their hands of the whole situation, Druella couldn't gather the leverage or the funds to keep the case alive. So, Bellatrix carried on with her "treatment", while Pollux married a girl Andromeda's age, retired in the country, and fathered twins, Alecto and Amycus.

Life went on, and what happened didn't haunt her every waking moment anymore. There were nights she slept through without reliving it in her dreams, and there were days when she wasn't consumed with impotent, directionless rage. Not many, but more and more as time passed.

Right past Potage's Cauldrons, they turned the corner into Knockturn Alley, and Bellatrix breathed a small sigh of relief. True to its name, Knockturn Alley was shadowed even during the day time, and she preferred its obscured nooks and corners to the hollow bonhomie of its more-popular cousin. Her sister, on the other hand, looked mildly horrified. By custom, every establishment here had a shrunken head on the door as a lookout, and she studied these with disgust as they passed. She was thus distracted when a wizard emerged from the shadows and grabbed her by the arm."Can I interest you in some top-quality unregistered wands?" he wheezed. "A lovely young lady such as yourself -"

The words died in on his tongue as a jet of light sent him spinning into the wall. Bellatrix was upon him instantly, her curved wand digging viciously into his cheek. " _Never speak to my sister again_ ," she hissed.

"S-sorry, Miss Black!" he stuttered, clearly terrified. He ran the moment she lowered her weapon.

Andy gave her a strange look, part gratitude and part shock at what she no doubt perceived as excessive force. But Bellatrix was very familiar with the rules of the pecking order in the seedy underbelly of wizarding society, where the ability to inspire fear was a type of currency.

"They love new meat around here," she explained, a touch defensive. "He'll spread the word so they know to leave you alone."

Andromeda shook her head in disbelief. "How can you live in this place?"

"It's not so bad, really. You just have to learn how to deal with these people. Or, you can just Floo in and out - no need to go outside."

"Wasn't there a spot in Diagon Alley?"

"I can't stand it there. Always full of kids and housewives, running around, _laughing_ …" The very thought brought a scowl to her face.

Andy raised her eyebrows. "Er...I can see why _that_ would bother you…" she said, half-hoping it was a joke.

"At least here I get a little peace. Nobody asks questions; they just mind their business and I mind mine."

"Whatever you say, Bella" the younger witch murmured, with the air of indulging a barmy old relative. While they didn't treat her like she was on the verge of a mental breakdown anymore, Bellatrix often sensed that her sisters took extra special care to accommodate her wavering moods. And it really pissed her off.

"Here we are," she bit out as they came to her building. "It's just upstairs."

She lived down the street from Borgin and Burkes, over a small apothecary. The accommodations were hardly palatial, but her flat was sizable, quiet, and cheap. The view wasn't bad either: every night, the barmaid from the White Wyvern took a smoke-break outside, and you could usually catch a good glimpse down her cleavage from the second-floor window.

They mounted the stairs, but right before the first landing, Bellatrix stumbled. "Careful!" Andromeda cried, catching her arm.

"For fuck's sake!" she snapped, wrenching free. "I'm not an invalid!"

"Oh...of course not," her sister mumbled, looking away.

Truthfully, the fall two years ago hadn't left her body the same. Healers were quite good at patching up broken extremities, but a shattered pelvis was another matter entirely. They had done the best they could, but still, Bellatrix had acquired just the slightest limp on her left side. It skewed her center of gravity to a degree that sometimes made flying difficult; though still quite talented, she'd never again master the perfect execution required for professional Quidditch. At first, the impairment had made her feel self-conscious and vulnerable - unable to run from danger - but she had compensated by learning every jinx, hex, and curse she could find. It was what made her so good at her job.

The wards on her door were extensive; she toyed with the idea of teaching Andromeda the combinations, but the bewildered look on the other girl's face made her discard that idea. Andy would just need to leave through the fireplace, which was ultimately safer anyways.

" _Home Sweet Home_ ," she drawled, sarcastic, as they entered the flat. Plopping her sister's trunks down, she threw herself onto the couch with a groan.

"Um, are you sure you live here?" the younger witch challenged, looking around. "And not..say, a horde of trolls?"

"Oh shut up, Andy. We can't all be perfect like you, can we?" she snarked, munching on an old piece of toast that she'd found under some newspapers on the table. "Besides, now that you're here, you can fix up the place a bit."

"I'm not about to become your house elf!"

Bellatrix shrugged. "Suit yourself. But don't expect me to clean up, because, I can tell you right now - it's not gonna happen."

Shaking her head in exasperation, Andromeda levitated her luggage to an empty bedroom and began to unpack. Another room remained unoccupied for the present, waiting for the youngest Black sister to take up residence. But Bellatrix suspected that Cissy would never come to live here: she was too fond of luxuries and, unlike her sisters, her feelings for their father tended more towards ambivalence than outright hatred.

She fell asleep on the couch, listening to the (uneventful) Cannons-Arrows match, only to be woken the next morning by an exceptionally excited Andy.

"The Prophet came!" the younger witch squealed, thrusting the open paper into her hands.

"Bugger off," Bellatrix groaned, rubbing at her aching neck. "Or better yet, make me some coffee." She tried to squint at the paper, but her eyes were still clouded with sleep.

Undeterred, Andy went on : "They're accepting Auror applications from _witches_. For the first time ever!"

That got her attention. Bellatrix sat up, scanning the little notice (buried in the very back of the paper), and saw that her sister was right. She'd had more than a few run-ins with the Aurors since the first interview in 's, and had generally found them rude, entitled, and incompetent. Due to her occupation, they had long suspected her of being a petty criminal, and had even approached her with an offer to go on the Ministry payroll as an informant. She refused. "Don't tell me you're trying to go?"

"Yes - and I want you to come with me!"

"What? _Me?_ " Bellatrix snorted. "Are you insane?...wait no, don't answer that…"

" _Please_ Bella," the younger witch begged, "I don't want to be the only one! You just have to show up for one day of tryouts - you can just back out later."

Bellatrix emphatically shook her head. "All they're going to do is try and humiliate you - trust me. They want to see you fail so they can say nobody was qualified enough, and then the Aurors can keep being the old boys club it always was. No way."

Very much resembling a little girl in that moment, Andromeda began to pout. "This means a lot to me, you know how much I always wanted to be an Auror! I would be the first witch, _ever_ , in history!"

The wall across the sofa was covered with Puddlemere United posters, relics of a dream long since dead. She didn't want Andromeda to end up like she had, did she?

"I don't know…" she sighed, uncertain.

"If we both go, Alice may come too!"

Bellatrix scowled. "That annoying Ravenclaw girl? You're still friends with her?"

"Yes, I am, and she's _not_ annoying," Andy insisted, crossing her arms.

"You just don't see it 'cause you're the same way. But, you're my sister so I have to put up with you. _Her_ , on the other hand - "

"I'll do all the chores for a month," Andy cut in, looking resigned.

"Laundry too?" Bellatrix couldn't help but smirk.

"Yes, laundry too."

She tilted her head, as though calculating exactly how much she could get away with. "Make it two months, and you have yourself a deal."

"Fine," Andromeda hissed.

* * *

Reviews are greatly appreciated!

Also, I acknowledge that Alecto and Amycus Carrow being born in 1971 is not canon-compliant.


	17. Killer Instinct Pt 2

Hello all! I apologize for the long wait between chapters and thank everyone who is still reading. Holidays are a really busy time, but now I can hopefully get into a better routine with updates. Next chapter is the moment of truth for Hermione and her effort to change the timeline.

Previews are greatly appreciated!

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1971\. (Cont. from previous chapter.)

The cold light of dawn found the two of them lined up in the backlot of a nondescript Muggle warehouse, amidst a small crowd of wizards. Many hadn't bothered to disguise their appearance; some sported full robes, some wore pointed hats and other colorful accessories which seemed quite out of place in the decidedly mundane surroundings. Bellatrix, long used to passing in the Muggle world for her work, had insisted that she and her sister wear overcoats; and, as she spotted the wizards prowling the perimeter, checking out the recruits, she knew her hunch was right. This was the first test - Aurors needed to possess the ability to disappear in a crowd, Muggle or otherwise.

Of course, as two of only a handful of witches present, they still drew a lot of attention. The boys leered unabashedly, especially at Andromeda, who answered with a polite smile, instead of a death glare, like her sister.

"Stop it, Andy," Bellatrix growled. "You're encouraging them!"

"I'm just trying to be nice, Bella. It wouldn't hurt you to do the same, you know," the younger witch responded reasonably.

 _"Nice?"_ Bellatrix spat in disgust. "If another one of them winks at you, I'll _nicely_ cut his fucking eyes out."

"Temper, temper, Black," came the mocking response, as a slight wizard in Auror robes approached. "I see you're still as feisty as always."

"Collins," Bellatrix sneered, turning upon the intruder. She eyed him up and down slowly, her features scrunched with disgust. "Still waiting for that growth spurt, eh? Or - are the rumors true after all, and you're really part Goblin?"

Next to her, Andy snorted softly under her breath, while Collins turned red, looking as though he'd like nothing better than to punch Bellatrix in the face. Theirs was a long-lived rivalry, dating back to her fifth year, when she'd turned down his invitation to tea on Valentine's day on account of him being a filthy half-blood. As a seventh year and a big-shot Quidditch star, he'd clearly expected her to fall at his feet, and had never gotten over the rejection.

Reining in his anger with difficulty, Collins gave her a condescending pat on the shoulder, making Bellatrix flinch at the touch.

He smirked. "Why don't you run along home, Black. Us Aurors have a tough job, you know - it may be too much for someone of your... delicate disposition."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" she demanded furiously, rounding on him, her wand already in her fingers.

"I suggest you put that away," he commanded, pompous as always. "I'd _hate_ to have to arrest you. Again."

He grinned fondly, no doubt remembering the time he'd brought her in on some trumped-up dragon-smuggling charge. He'd ended up with a black eye, and she'd ended up with forty eight hours in solitary confinement. Bellatrix considered that particular time a draw, though clearly Collins thought he had got one over on her. Perhaps it was time to set the record straight.

Andy, noticing the ominous turn her demeanor had taken, grabbed her by the arm."Bella...please…" she begged.

"Me, I don't think you've got the nerve for it," the Auror went on, a nasty glint in his eye. "Would be a such a shame if you decided to take a runner off the roof any time the going gets rough."

The little bastard had seen her file, she realized. Her confidential, sealed file. Fury rose like a tidal wave within her, and before she knew it, she'd summoned a snake to wrap around the wizard's throat, choking him. " _You ever, EVER, mention that again in my presence_ ," she whispered viciously in his ear, " _it will be the last thing you ever do_."

Collins was quickly turning purple. He had his hands at his throat, desperately clawing at the serpent. But it was relentless. "T-threatening a Ministry employee is a criminal offense," he choked out, with great difficulty. "D-do you really think your name can keep you out of A-Azkaban again?"

"Bella, listen to him!" Andy cried, latching onto her wand-hand to wrench it away. "Please don't get us in trouble!"

Shooting her sister an irritated glance, Bellatrix reluctantly ended the spell, leaving the Auror gasping for breath on the ground.

"I'll get you for that, Black" he rasped, face contorted with rage.

Her answering sneer could have sent another man running. "I would _love_ to see you try."

She turned, and stalked through the crowd - which parted wearily before her- to the other end of the lot, obscured from view by a large metal crate; Andy, long used to her habits, knew better than to stop her. She needed some time to calm down, to suppress the overwhelming urge to turn that prat Collins into bloody confetti.

Leaning against the cold metal of the crate, she took out her hip flask and downed a couple of modest sips. A soft _clink_ drew her attention, and she noticed that she wasn't the only one using the solitude the crate provided to escape the horde of dimwits behind her. A middle aged wizard, face carved with jagged scars and missing a chunk of his nose, sat some twenty feet away, atop an overturned oil drum. Raising his own flask towards her in silent salute, he took a long draught. They'd crossed paths before, she recalled vaguely - probably stumbling out of the Cauldron at closing time.

Before she could think on it too long, a couple of figures rounded the corner and approached her; Bellatrix couldn't help but groan when she realized who it were probably here to check on her, no doubt at her sister's request.

"Fawley, Longbottom. What an _unpleasant_ surprise."

"Bellatrix." Frank nodded politely, unphased by her hostile tone. He'd been betrothed to Andy for years, and the two of them were on very good terms, unlike Cissy and Lucius, who could hardly stand the sight of each other. The Longbottoms weren't rich, but they _were_ highly respected and had been in law enforcement for generations. She had no doubts that Frank would be selected today, though that had more to do with nepotism, she suspected, than with actual talent. But, really, Andy could do worse than a pliable, well-mannered (though somewhat dim) young pureblood for a husband.

And then there was the annoying Ravenclaw girl - the one she held responsible for singlehandedly turning Andy into an insufferable little bookworm. She had ridiculous opinions on everything, and not enough sense to keep them to herself.

The girl just smiled at her - a taunting smile - and pulled a rectangular package from her coat. From the package she withdrew a little tube, and then set it on fire.

A cloud of noxious smoke followed this strange ritual, and it soon had Bellatrix doubled in a fit of coughing. "Aren't those for _Muggles_?" she demanded incredulously, staring at the girl as though all her worst suspicions had finally been confirmed.

Fawley let out a laugh, the sound bright and high as the peal of a bell. "Andy told me you were a bit uptight."

" _I'm_ uptight?" Bellatrix scoffed. "Well, that's rich, coming from her." She glared until the girl looked away and snuffed out the strange device.

"Alice likes to... experiment with Muggle things," Frank offered, realizing that his friend would give neither explanation nor apology.

Bellatrix crossed her arms - and though the gesture was certainly meant to be menacing, it came off defensive, as though she was trying to shield herself from contagion. "So, you're a blood traitor," she accused. "I should have known."

Fawley's laughing eyes slid slowly over her face, as though her features would reveal the answer to some unspoken question. "I appreciate a thing for what it is in itself, not for what people _think_ it is," she said.

Unsettled by this close scrutiny, Bellatrix turned to the boy. "Does she always talk nonsense?"

"Pretty much." Frank shrugged. "But she's smarter than all of us put together, so I put up with it," he teased, sending the Ravenclaw a sheepish grin.

The girl responded with a playful shove. "Aww, Frankie, you're gonna make me blush."

But it was only Longbottom who blushed ( a fact she'd have to discuss with Andy later), while the girl turned her attention back to Bellatrix. "So, what about you?" she asked.

"What _about_ me?" she snapped, hating that all-too-observant gaze upon her, wondering what conclusions the girl had already drawn.

"I didn't know you wanted to be an Auror," the girl challenged.

"Oh, I don't," she said. "Although there's a few of them I'd love to hex to bits."

"That would be fun to watch. I bet you're really impressive with a wand," Fawley murmured, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"I...I am," Bellatrix stuttered. _This girl couldn't be flirting with her, could she?_

No, it was preposterous; Fawley was probably just the sort of person who thought so much of herself that every word out of her mouth, compliment or otherwise, came with an undertone of mockery.

"You know, we used to love watching you play," the girl went on airily. "Even against Ravenclaw and Gryffindor. Isn't that right, Frank?"

"Well, I wouldn't go so far as all that…" he demurred, studying his trainers. "But you were good…"

The reminder of her Quidditch days had instantly thrown Bellatrix back into a foul mood. "Haven't you wasted enough of my time already?" she said, making a show of studying her watch. It was a clear dismissal, and sure enough, Longbottom grasped his companion by the arm and tried to pull her away.

But the girl dawdled. Bellatrix could feel those eyes on her face, though she kept her gaze firmly fixed on the high-rises in the distance. "I'll look for you inside, then," Fawley told her at last. And then, she turned and followed the boy out of sight, leaving nought but a trace of perfume to linger in the air.

As it turned out, the girl was not true to her word, and the rest of the day passed without another encounter with her sister's tedious friends. The hopefuls suffered hours upon hours of written tests, sat in rows in a huge hall, much like they'd all done for the N.E. . Bellatrix amused herself by filling the margins with obscene doodles (some involving the grisly demise of a certain Auror) but left the answers blank - why bother, after all? From the corner of her eye, she could see Andromeda sweating over her scattered parchments as she scribbled at supersonic speeds. Leaving, unfortunately, was out of the question; she'd given Andy her word that she would be there with her to the bitter end.

Eons, surely, had passed, before the time for practical evaluations finally came. A duelling stage had been set up in the hall, and the wizards gathered around, Bellatrix forcing Andy to the back of the room, where she could keep her eye on the door in case Collins showed up again. The loud rhythmic _clack_ of a staff hitting concrete brought a hush in conversation, and a hunched wizard mounted the platform and surveyed his audience. It was the man with the hip flask, Bellatrix realized.

"I've met my fair share of recruits," he boomed, voice full of gravel and pitched loud with magic, "and I have to say that _you lot_ are the most pathetic bunch of sniveling little gnomes I've ever seen."

He paused, as though to let the words sink in - and she could nearly feel the crowd deflate, the excitement die. "This is the part of the programme that separates the boys from the men," he went on gravely. "It's your opportunity to show us if you've got what it takes to make it in the Department. Obviously, I'm expecting most of you to run home crying to mummy before the hour is out, but, on the off chance that there's a couple diamonds in the rough among you, I want you all to line up here and prepare to duel."

"He's a right bastard, ain't he?" a boy standing in front of them whispered to his companion.

"Moody? Aye, though I hear he's been much worse since the old lady left him," the other replied in a conspiratorial tone.

"Huh," the first snorted in disbelief. "Well, she must have been some woman. I mean, who wants to wake up next to _that_?"

Bellatrix, who hadn't taken her eyes off the Auror, noticed a twitch run through his body, and then he was off - stalking through the crowd towards them like a rabid dog, until he had the young wizard in his grasp, clutched by the lapel. How he had heard the whispered conversation from across a packed hall, Bellatrix couldn't even begin to fathom.

"You talking about me, boy?" Moody growled at his prey, who could only shake his head in mute horror. " _This_ ," he pointed at his scarred countenance, "is the face of an Auror who's danced with the darkest wizards of our time, and won! A couple bumps and bruises is a small price to pay to put a killer in Azkaban!" he snarled, shoving the boy away in disgust.

"I..uh, yes, sir," the boy stuttered, bringing a shaking hand to smooth his robe.

" _Yes, sir_ ," Moody mocked. "That's right." He looked about at the assembled faces, many slack with shock, and his mouth contorted in a sinister grin. "Now, which one of you wants to go up there and show me what you've got?"

A shudder went through the flock, and, with an almost imperceptible shift, everyone drew back, leaving Bellatrix standing at the very forefront of the empty ring which formed around Moody.

 _Oh, what the hell,_ Bellatrix thought, and stepped forth. "Right here," she announced loudly.

Every eye in the room was upon her instantly; most held unconcealed disdain, while the old Auror's gaze was considering. "What's your name?" Moody asked.

She held her head a fraction higher, gleaming in the limelight, having long forgotten how much she'd missed it from her Quidditch days. "Bellatrix Black."

"You're in the wrong place, luv!" someone called out from the crowd. "They're interviewing for secretaries next door!"

A ripple of laughter passed through the ranks at the remark. She heard Andromeda gasp behind her, shocked at the blatant disrespect, and certainly, a younger Bellatrix would have furiously demanded how they dared to address a scion of the Most Noble House like that. But the heyday of the old great families was quickly passing them by. In this brave new world the Dumbledores of the world had created, there were only two gods that the shiftless masses still worshipped: money and power.

"Silence!" Moody barked. "Black here obviously has more guts than the whole lot of you!"

"Come on up then." He motioned her through the crowd to the raised platform, observing her carefully as she mounted and took the duelling stance. "Alright, why don't you start with one of our newer agents -"

"I'll do it, sir," an eager voice cut in.

Bellatrix smirked when her opponent stepped up. "Back for more, Collins?"

Without waiting for a response, the young Auror shot a stunner - a straight pitch, easy to parry. Bellatrix deflected with a flick, but held back, knowing from their previous altercations that Collins was the type of duellist who would hang himself with the rope you gave him.

They traded shots for several minutes, as Collins wore himself out trying, and failing, to land a single hex. Her Keeper's instincts made it easy to pick up on the intentions his body telegraphed, and as she saw him drop low for the beginnings of a spell, she cast _protego_. His rebounded curse hit him in the face, and, with a sick gurgling in his throat, he began to vomit slugs.

It was Bella's turn to laugh, and the crowd, fickle as an autumn breeze, now laughed along with her.

" _Finite_ ," came Moody's gruff rejoinder, as he approached the fallen wizard. Hauling the young Auror to his feet, he whispered something in his ear, vanished the slime from his face, and, sending Bellatrix another penetrating glance, called for Round Two. Humiliation did not suit Collins; whereas before he'd been cocky and eager to prove himself superior, he now turned weary - prowling the perimeter, looking for an angle, devising a strategy. He'd taken a moment to clear his head, and had finally started to use his training. This gave Bellatrix pause; she preferred the temperamental fighter of all the types, as the one most likely to make careless mistakes.

When the Auror finally struck, it was a spell sent low, forcing her to contort her body to dodge it. By the time she caught her bearings, he was on the other end of the platform, shooting another hex her way. He kept her on the defense as she tried to adjust to the rapidly shifting odds, getting more frustrated by the minute.

"Stop letting him get behind you!" Andy shouted from the sidelines, all decorum lost in the heat of the moment, reminding Bellatrix of the way her sisters always used to cheer the loudest at her matches, despite their endless protestations that Quidditch was a vulgar pastime.

But she just couldn't keep up with Collins' weaving and dodging. He forced her on the move constantly, and her hip was already worn down with shooting pains. But the prospect of losing to the slimy little worm before her was unthinkable. She lived for her pride, and to have it wrenched away would surely be a fate worse than death. No, she couldn't let that happen.

The hall stood in rapt attention as the tables turned once again, and Collins found himself subject to an overwhelming barrage of powerful spells. His hasty shield charms splintered under the impact and he was thrown back by an invisible force, landing on the ground with a painful thump. A shocked murmur went through the audience as he lay unmoving, and some rushed forward to see if he was still alive.

"That's enough! Get back, all of you," Moody shouted at the crowd, which was still jostling to get a better look at the fallen Auror. "Make a line, now, we're going to test everyone's duelling. Quickly now!" He motioned a colleague toward Collins, and the unconscious wizard was levitated away, clearing the stage.

"You, Black, come with me!" Moody barked at her. Ignoring the burning looks, Bellatrix descended the platform with the bearing of a queen and followed the old Auror through the crowd.

When they were safely away from prying eyes and ears, he turned upon her, pinning her with his beady gaze. "Not bad for a schoolgirl," he rasped, a small grin playing around his scarred mouth.

She narrowed her eyes. "I work for Borgin and Burkes. Sourcing and recovery."

"Yes, well, you've got a hell of a repertoire. Dark stuff, too."

His tone was hard to qualify, a mixture of admiration and contempt. "It's ...useful, sometimes," she said, wearily.

"Dangerous, some might say...even illegal." His voice had grown hard, menacing, laced with a sort of fanaticism that made her realize that Moody loved what he did with an unhealthy passion.

Bellatrix swallowed, uncomfortable. "What did you tell him? Collins - when you whispered something to him after I knocked him out - what did you say?" she asked, trying to divert his attention.

"I told him you've got a shoddy hip," he rasped. "You're slow and too stationary; that's your weakness."

She stifled a gasp, wondering if Moody had picked up on all that just from watching her. "Maybe that's true, but I don't lose duels," she snapped, defensive.

"Not against two-bit pickpockets and junior Aurors. But against a skilled Dark Wizard?" he countered.

Bellatrix let out an angry huff, crossing her arms. "What's your point?"

"You never really know what a fighter's capable of until they're pushed to the brink. Most get scared, get sloppy. But some...they come back stronger, no matter what it takes." There was subtext there, but Bellatrix wasn't entirely sure she was grasping all of it.

"You've got that killer instinct, Black," he declared gravely. "I hope you don't abuse it."

He left her puzzled, and she stood there, mind a jumble of disjointed thoughts, until Andromeda found her an hour later.

* * *

Sleep was a fickle friend for Bellatrix, both desperately-craved and ever-elusive; and on those rare occasions when she found its sweet oblivion, it taunted her with horrors, invented and remembered. Often, she feared she'd never know true rest until that longest, deepest sleep of all - the sleep of death.

The clock struck four as she sat slumped in her favorite armchair, watching the embers of the fire turn slowly into ash, mindlessly swirling the drink in her glass.

A muted crash in Andromeda's room pulled her from her stupor, and as she strained her ears, she could just make out the sounds of stifled sobbing. Biting back a sigh, she got up, walked to the door and knocked. She wondered if it was strange for her sister to sleep by herself. It had taken Bellatrix a while to adjust to having her own room, having shared with either her sisters or her housemates for most of her life - was it the same for Andy?

"You ok?"

"I'm fine," came the muffled response. "Go back to bed."

"Yeah right," she muttered, pushing open the door and walking into the gloom. A familiar huddled figure on the floor drew her attention and she approached it, plopping down gracelessly beside.

"I don't know why you do this to yourself," she groused. "Just take the damn potion."

"Dreamless Sleep is highly addictive," Andy lectured for the hundredth time. "And you need increasing doses to get the same effect the longer you use it and it's ultimately not effective."

"Uh huh," she muttered, noncommittal. The two of them had different standards of "effective", and different ways of coping.

The minutes passed in silence as they sat companionably together on the floor, watching the clouds drift across the moon outside the window. "Do you think she knew?" Andromeda finally asked. "Mother, I mean."

Bellatrix shook her head, a sardonic smile tugging at her lips. "I used to drive myself crazy wondering that. But then I realized it doesn't really matter."

"What? Why?" Andromeda demanded, indignant.

"Well, say she did know - what difference would it have made? Do you really think she would have left him?"

"I…well..." Andy stammered, "I don't know."

"Yes you do," Bellatrix insisted. "You know how much the family name means to her. You know what she thinks of pureblood divorce."

"That's not fair, though. She couldn't have supported all of us by herself even if she wanted to," Andy defended, though her voice was shaky. "Do… do you think she really loves him?"

"I think she pities him."

"Well he doesn't deserve it!" Andy snapped, a barely-suppressed fury rising to the surface. "I _hate_ him, Bella. Hate him so much."

Bellatrix watched her sister ball her hands into white-knuckled fists, and felt a sharp pang of grief - grief for the childhood they'd never had, and for the younger girl's soul, now permanently tinged with the black mark of rage. "Cissy doesn't hate him," she pointed out.

"That's because he bought her with stupid little trinkets. She was too young to know any better."

"I don't either, honestly," she admitted.

"How can you say that?" Andromeda gasped. "I saw what he did to you! I was right there!"

Bellatrix sighed, feeling much older than her years. "Remember when we used to lie awake and make up horrible things we would do to him if we had the chance? Well, I realized that none of them are as bad as what he's doing to himself."

Refusing to meet her sister's wounded glare, she went on. "I think he hates _himself_ more than we ever could, so much that he can't bear to be sober even for a moment. He ruined his life, lost his fortune, and drove his family away, and now he has to live with it for the rest of his miserable life. I won't waste my energy on wishing him ill, because I need it to make myself better."

Her speech was met with long silence, as both of them sat with their thoughts. "Wow," Andy said at last. "When did _you_ grow up, and how come no one noticed?"

Bellatrix snorted. "Well in the spirit of my newfound maturity, let's have ice cream for breakfast, play some Exploding Snap, maybe wake up the neighbors…"

Sending a resigned look towards her unmade bed, Andy pulled herself up. "Oh, why not," she sighed, "It's not like I can fall asleep again."

"That's the spirit, little sister." Bellatrix grabbed a pillow from the floor and hurled it at the other witch with a cackle, running from the room before her victim could mount a counter strike.

But when Andy finally made it to the sitting room, hair flailing wildly and covered in down feathers, Bellatrix had grown serious, standing at the window as though trying to spot something on the horizon. "It think the post's here," she muttered.

"But it's the middle of the night!"

"Nevertheless…" Bellatrix said, as a shadow in the fog grew clearer, and soon, revealed itself to be a tattered, midnight-black owl. Andromeda unlatched the window, and the owl landed on the sill, quickly unloaded its cargo, and with a suspicious look at the proffered treat, turned on its heel and flew away.

"Sorry Tisiphone," the younger Black cooed to her own bird, who looked almost appalled at the display she'd witnessed. "Owls are like humans I guess; some of them have absolutely _no_ manners." She threw a sideways glance at Bellatrix, wondering if the gibe had landed, but the dark haired witch had already torn open the envelope and was reading it with rapt fascination.

"What does it say?" Andy demanded, an edge of worry in her voice.

Bellatrix gulped. "It's from Moody."

Ignoring her protests, Andy tore the letter from her sister's hands and began to read aloud. " _Ms. Black: after considering our conversation earlier today_ ," Andy raised a questioning gaze, unaware of what had passed between the Auror and her sister, then continued, " _and given your impressive performance in the dueling rink, I am extending you an offer to join the Auror training programme-_ " Andy couldn't suppress a squeal of excitement, and was about to grasp her sister in a hug, when the older witch stopped her.

"Read the rest of it," Bellatrix directed numbly.

Andy gave her a quizzical look, but complied. " _However, for reasons that should be abundantly clear, you will, should you elect to accept the position, make yourself available for regular observation and questioning, so that the Department can be assured of your trustworthiness and your complete loyalty to the Ministry and its aims. Any evidence of duplicity may be considered treason and will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law…_ " Andy gave her an astonished look. "What does it mean, Bella?"

A shadow passed over the older witch's features. "They offered me money for information, but I didn't take it. So now they're offering me a job," she said darkly.

" _Information_? On Borgin and Burkes?"

Bellatrix shook her head. "That's what I thought at first, but that's not it. I think it's about the family."

"They want you to spy on your own parents?" Andromeda gasped, appalled.

"No, but they probably want me to spy on Uncle Orion and his 'business associates'."

"What are you going to do?" Andy asked with a shaking voice. "This letter, Bella...it sounds like a threat."

"I don't know. But there's something here for you too," she said, handing her sister a roll of parchment enclosed within her own. "Read it."

Andromeda fumbled with the parchment, her eyes racing across the page as soon as she got it open. "It says...it says I had the highest written scores of all the applicants, and overall my performance makes me suitable for the research and analysis division…"

Bellatrix watched her sister's face fall. "Isn't that good? Isn't that what you wanted?"she asked, tentative.

Andy shook her head miserably. "An analyst isn't a real Auror. It's just a desk job."

"Well, maybe it's for the best. At least it's not dangerous," Bellatrix tried to reassure her.

Andy narrowed her eyes. "Oh you think I can't handle being in the field!" she snapped.

"That's _not_ what I said-"

"This is _so_ unfair Bella!" the younger witch interrupted. "I worked my arse off for this, I wanted it so much, and they offer it to _you_ of all people, when I had to practically drag you to the interview kicking and screaming."

The dark haired witch crossed her arms, trying valiantly to suppress her annoyance. "Well I'm not exactly thrilled about it either! You should be happy they're not trying to put _you_ on a leash as their little spy," she hissed.

Balling her hands into fists, the younger witch looked to be on the verge of a verbal explosion, but she, too, managed to reign in that famous Black temper. " _Whatever,_ " she huffed, petulant. A moment later, the echo of her slamming door reverberated through the flat.

Bellatrix could do nothing but roll her eyes. _Bloody teenagers_ , she though.


	18. The Moment of Truth

I was amused to see that a reader called Bella's back-story in this fic a soap-opera. Ha! Guilty as charged ;)

Please be forewarned that the back story will be _lengthy._ It will basically be a story-within-a-story spanning the time from her graduation to her imprisonment. Yes, I know people only want to read the Bellamione parts, but to me their romance is only a part of the journey. I may mark the flashback scenes somehow so people can skip them, or put it all in another prequel-type story.

Thanks for reading!

* * *

"You're awful, Granger. Completely bloody awful!" Cho cried, her porcelain cheeks turned red with fury.

Hermione merely shrugged, the picture of indifference, though inside she was at the very edge of her patience. "It's not _my_ fault your friend is a snitch."

"I can't _believe_ I trusted you!" Cho threw up her hands in exasperation. "You wanting to get your claws into Harry - ok, that I could overlook. You've known him for years. He's famous. Whatever."

Hermione barely managed to bite back a scoff. "I _never_ -"

"But _this_?" Cho cut in. "Marietta is my best friend. How could you?"

Hermione paced in irritation, though, considering that they were in a broom closet, she didn't get very far. "Everybody agreed to the rules. She didn't have to sell us out to Umbridge. She brought this on herself!"

Cho shook her head in disgust. "We both know that you could have cast any other spell on that parchment - like a spell preventing anyone from incriminating the D.A. But you picked the most vicious, humiliating thing possible!"

"Oh, it could have been a lot worse, _believe me_ ," she snapped.

"I _do_ believe you. Because you're petty and vindictive, Hermione, and I just realized it," Cho declared, with the air of someone offering an unpleasant truth. It made Hermione's hackles rise instantly.

"Well you obviously _don't_ realize that we're on the verge of war! Harry and the D.A. were the best shot we had of surviving it. Now, it's all over, Dumbledore's been sacked, Umbridge and the Death Eaters' kids are running Hogwarts. And all because that spineless twit was so concerned with saving her self!"

"Don't you talk about her that way! Marietta's a good person; they just frightened and intimidated her into telling! It could have been anyone!"

A sardonic little grin flitted across Hermione's face, as she remembered Umbridge's many attempts at interrogating her. "It could have been, but it wasn't."

"Madame Pomfrey can't find a counter-jinx!" Cho accused.

"Well, that's not my problem, is it?"

The Ravenclaw gaped at her in disbelief. "Merlin, I feel like I don't even know you."

"That's probably because you _don't_ know me," Hermione rejoined. "All you ever do is whinge and moan and talk about yourself. You think that's _fun_ for me? You think I wake up in the morning and think, 'Oh god, I hope Cho fucking Chang cries on my shoulder today'?"

Never mind the fact that there was indeed a time when she thought that, wanted that. But the events of the last few hours had given Hermione a sort of desperate clarity. Well, not clarity perhaps, but an all-encompassing purpose, before which all other concerns seemed trivial. Dumbledore was gone, and the school was practically under martial law. She knew she'd never get another chance, not with the Inquisitorial squad and the new Headmistress breathing down her neck and shadowing her every move. It had to be tonight.

But before she left - left for a journey where survival was far from guaranteed - she would speak her mind. "Do you realize that I've done everything - everything - I could to help Harry fight this war?" she said, her tone deliberately calm. "I set up the D.A, I made the lesson plans, I got the Quibbler interview published, I wasted precious time away from my research - just to see it all go to hell so Marietta's mum can keep her job spying on the Floo! I'm a muggleborn, Cho. I can't survive in a world where we lose."

"That still doesn't justify what you did," the Ravenclaw replied petulantly.

"I don't need to justify myself to you. You think that just because you're pretty, you can walk all over people's feelings - well, you can't! I'm not one of your hangers-on, to hover around you forever hoping for a second of your time. I'm done. I've had enough."

"You think I was, what - using you?" Cho demanded, clearly perplexed by Hermione's accusations, as though the thought had never even occurred to her. "Don't you know what I've been through this year?"

"Oh, get over yourself," Hermione scoffed. "People die all the time, all right? And you just have to accept it, and move on, and _grow up_!"

Cho's face froze in a mask of betrayal, as though she couldn't quite believe what she was hearing. In a flash, Hermione felt her cheek sting where the other witch had slapped her. The pain burned hot, then cold, and left her with an inchoate desire to just reach over and wring the girl's delicate neck, and another - more desperate, now undeniable - desire to kiss her.

And only then did Hermione finally accept what all of this had been about : her inexplicable, directionless longing; her crushing loneliness; her many hopeless infatuations. Infatuations that were hopeless by design, since to have found a resolution would have forced her to confront what she was, what she wanted.

"Do me a favor, Cho," she whispered. "Just... leave me alone."

"Gladly," the older witch bit out, her tone glacial. And, with one last, dramatic flip of her hair, she turned and was gone.

Hardly sparing a moment to feel sorry for herself, Hermione set to clearing out her broom closet, meticulously filing her notes and calculations, and wiping any trace that she was ever there. Truly it was an incredible piece of luck that the pink toad hadn't come upon her personal lab, but with Filch now in possession of a disciplinary carte blanche, she knew that her secret would be discovered in no time.

Soon, the broom closet was just that once more, housing its very own rancid mop and leaky bucket, and one Gryffindor girl with a string of time-turners around her neck. She'd charmed the little hour glasses into a single helix, winding all the way around her neck. The full loop represented the day of the accident through to the present day, and was spelled to facilitate an endless repetition of that timeline, unless certain specific conditions could be met.

Only in the case of temporal stability would the time turner stop, hopefully depositing her in a version of the past where a catastrophic paradox was impossible. It was her best hope for a safeguard against the collapse of the entire fabric of time, but came with the risk that she would be trapped within the cycle of these last few months forever.

Was it all worth it? Her own words to Cho came back to her now: _people die all the time...you just have to accept it, and move on..._

But she could never accept it. This was different, completely different. This was a mistake that never should have happened. It was a mistake she needed to fix, no matter what the cost.

Grasping the makeshift time turner, she wound it back all the way, but didn't let go."Wish me luck, boys," she muttered to the ceiling, where she imagined Ron and Harry lounging in the Gryffindor common room above. "Here goes nothing."

The dial began to spin madly, and she watched the sand flow down the spiral, all the way to the beginning, as the little cupboard flexed around her, the walls pushing out and in, almost giving way beneath the magical onslaught. The strange spinning went on so long that she feared it would never stop. But then the light shifted slightly, and time stood still.

Hermione let out a grateful breath. Without thinking, she reached for the door handle, and as her fingers grazed the metal, it seemed to waver from existence, but rematerialized. It was just like the locket in Grimmauld Place, fading in and out of being - but nothing bad had come of that.

 _Yet_ , her treacherous mind supplied.

Shaking the thought, she took a breath and tried again. The door gave way, opening onto the same old corridor, and were it not for the daylight streaming through the windows, she might have concluded that she hadn't travelled back at all.

Making her way down the hall, she searched for any other signs of the year, the date, the time, but Hogwarts looked just the same. It had probably looked just the same in the Middle Ages, actually.

Eventually she wandered to the transfiguration corridor, and through the open archways, was overjoyed to see that the rhododendrons were in full bloom. She had arrived, at the very least, in summer.

She was admiring the violet flowers, still dazed, when a voice washed over her like a scalding wave.

"Miss Granger."

 _Oh, God no_ , she thought desperately. Why, _why_ in the name of all that was good on heaven and earth did it always have to be fucking _Snape_?

She turned around, wide-eyed with horror, and stared at him mutely.

The Potions Professor, for his part, felt a small stab of joy, having been unable to produce this level of fear in this particular Gryffindor since she was a first year.

"Surely it has not escaped your notice that the term is over, Miss Granger? Or does your morbid enthusiasm for study know no bounds?"

"Um...well..." she mumbled stupidly.

"Did Potter and Weasley forget to collect you from the library, hmm?" he mocked, drawing nearer to more effectively stare down his nose at her. "Have you been living there this whole time, surviving on pure arrogance alone?"

"No, sir. I... umm…" she stuttered, grasping for a plausible explanation. "I forgot my cat."

She felt silly the second she said it, and Snape, judging by the look on his face, shared the same sentiments.

"You forgot your cat," he repeated dubiously. "Tell me, Miss Granger, do you take me for a fool?"

"No, Professor."

"Then why, pray tell, do you - and the rest of the student body, for the matter - insist on offering me the most laughably transparent excuses? You expect me to believe that you let weeks go by before trying to collect your familiar, and then somehow managed to find your way into the castle for that purpose without informing anyone?"

" I…" Hermione began, but stopped short, feeling a shiver of magic probe the periphery of her consciousness. Immediately, she looked down to avoid his gaze, realizing now how reckless she'd been. She should have disillusioned herself, or made a portkey, or even brought a watch before embarking on this journey. It was times like these when she was forced to admit that she and Harry weren't so different after all, despite her claims to being the best-prepared and most strategic member of their little group.

"The truth, Miss Granger, if you please," Snape commanded.

But Hermione suspected that telling another person about her experiment could prove disastrous. There was no knowing what effect his knowledge would have on this timeline, or on her future (past?) ability to make this journey in the first place. No, it was critical that Professor Snape learn nothing.

"Harry…" she began tentatively, watching his face contort in a sneer from the corner of her eye, "Harry asked me to help get his broom…"

Snape let out a triumphant bark of laughter. "I should have known that Potter was behind this! He's here now, isn't he?" There was an unholy gleam of anticipation in his eye. "Take me to him!"

"Yes, sir," she agreed morosely, but inside, some well-suppressed part of her was grinning madly. The Potions Master would certainly loathe knowing how easy to manipulate he made himself. "Harry's going to the Common Room."

"Very well. But do not imagine that your cooperation will save you from punishment today, Miss Granger!"

With a theatrical flourish of his cape, he turned and stalked toward the castle, clearly expecting her to follow. But Hermione had other plans.

"Stupefy!" she called, catching him right in the back and watching him fall in a tangle of black robes.

 _Oh my God I've hexed a teacher_ , her mind wailed helplessly on repeat, while her body carried her forward, snatched his wand and pulled up his sleeve to look at his wristwatch. Giddily, she realized that her invention had worked; it was the right day and the right time.

Though guilty and horrified by her own brazenness, Hermione couldn't help but feel a sort of self-righteous vindication at finally having put a bully in his place. If only there was a way for him to remember how she, the poor muggle-born student he had so unjustly persecuted for years, had got one over on him! He was so quick to turn his back to her, believing her completely harmless - but she wasn't harmless anymore, was she?

Obliviating the Professor, she was about to readjust his sleeve when the edges of a dark tattoo caught her eye. Drawing back the fabric, she studied the mark on his forearm with a clinical fascination, having never seen one up close. It seemed somehow ironic to her that a movement whose members believed in their own superiority due to blood status would allow themselves to be branded like cattle. She doubted that any of Voldemort's followers could appreciate just how muggle a practice gang tattoos were.

Leaving Snape sprawled on the flagstones, she donned Harry's cloak and made her way to the grounds. The feeling of being watched niggled at the back of her mind, though she knew it was impossible, so she skirted the edges of the treeline, half-hidden, just in case. After today, she promised herself, she'd either quit this cloak-and-dagger business completely, or work very hard to be good at it.

After giving the matter some thought, she decided not to risk shadowing her other self at the picnic with her parents, but apparated directly to the lone stretch of highway where the crash had taken place. The sun was scorching and the wind was humid, but it was still an uncommonly beautiful day.

She milled about by the roadside, trying to figure out the best vantage point from which to make her intervention. Before the Slytherin-Gryffindor game, she'd had a theory that the best way to change the outcome was not by targeting Ron's Keeping, but Harry's Seeking - an indirect approach, but the simplest possible path towards the same goal. Simplicity was key, because the more she did to interfere, the more uncertainty she introduced to the equation. It had worked then, and hopefully, it would work now. All she had to do was cast a well-timed _immobulus_ to stop the car, and hopefully distract its passengers from the their argument.

The minutes dragged long as she waited, sweating beneath the cover of the invisibility cloak, until finally, a speck appeared on the horizon, approaching quickly.

Was it the right car? It was hard to say from that distance. She squinted as it sped towards her, seeming to float above the asphalt, which had turned luminescent with reflected sunlight. Trying to catch them a few kilometers before the accident site, just to be safe, she raised her wand beneath the cloak, and held her breath…

The car advanced upon her, closer and closer, till she could just make out her father's funny hat behind the glass.

 _This was it_. The moment of truth.

" _Immobulus_ ," she exhaled softly. A pale jet of energy shot forth from her wand tip, arcing through the air with grace, heading faithfully towards its target.

But, just as the spell was about to hit home, it wavered, flickering in and out of existence as the wand, and the locket, and the door had done. Fate played its devastating hand; the spell failed to rematerialize, and the car continued onward.

When it was was level with her, the car seemed to slow - but no, it was only time that had slowed, slowed to a crawl. She watched in frozen horror as the side window inched past, and inside: her father gripping the wheel, her mother drawn back to yell at her…and the other Hermione, face etched in fury, slowly turning toward the window, meeting her gaze through the glass…

 _She knows I'm here_ , was her only thought before a charge of energy sliced the air and everything exploded.

* * *

Consciousness found Hermione sprawled yards from the roadside in a painful heap, though mercifully still beneath the protective cover of the cloak. She'd learned her lesson after nearly being strangled at the Ministry, and had charmed the fabric to stick to her until she herself removed it.

 _But then, if you'd died here, they never would have found your body_ , a voice in her head supplied unhelpfully.

As the ringing in her ears died down, a cacophony of sirens and shouting assaulted her senses. The sleepy country road had given way to utter pandemonium, as emergency services, police, and numerous gawkers jockeyed for position, trying to conduct their business. Rising to her feet with a grunt of pain, Hermione approached the scene slowly, as though in a trance. The smell of charred fuel was in the air and the black smoke hung heavy all around like fog, but she tried to search the wreckage nonetheless.

"Dreadful business," someone said nearby, and Hermione suddenly noticed that she was surrounded by a group of onlookers. The elderly man who had spoken, dressed in full gardening kit, though he affected a tone of grave disapproval, was obviously straining to peer through the crowd for a glimpse.

A woman beside him _tsk_ ed loudly. "Terrible!" she exclaimed, then, with poorly concealed curiosity : "Who was it, do you know?"

"Probably some drunken twat up from the city," offered a third spectator, drawing disapproving glares from the first two. "I mean, what kind of moron goes out in a blaze of fire when he's the only one on the road?"

"I think it was a whole lot of them in the ambulance, actually…" the woman corrected tartly.

Hermione didn't waste time to hear more, but Apparated directly to the hospital (the same they'd been taken to the first and time), neither knowing nor caring that the loud _pop_ of her disappearance, mistaken for gunshots by the muggles, caused mass hysteria and a police investigation that would inconvenience the unfortunate gawkers for weeks to come.

Frantically rushing through the casualty ward, still invisible, Hermione tried to find the room they'd kept her mother in. She'd spent so much time there that she'd memorized every crack in the linoleum, every strip of peeling wallpaper. It was the same door, the same biting smell of disinfectant that brought bile to her throat.

And...there she was, just as she'd been in memory, her face obscured by bandages, full of tubes and cords and pain.

"No…" she choked on a sob, "No, please, _no_."

 _Oh god, it's all been for nothing_. The disappointment was absolutely crushing, and she'd never hated herself more than in that moment.

Just then, a couple of nurses bustled in, and Hermione clasped a hand over her mouth to hold back her cries.

"I think we need to change her bandages," the elder said to the younger, motioning to the chart hanging by the bed.

"Not already?" the younger one protested. She had the sort of nasally voice that grated on the nerves like nails on a chalkboard. Hermione remembered her from last time.

The gray-haired nurse rolled up a table and arranged some bottles and gauze. "Well it's a rather nasty head wound, we don't want an infection."

They began their work in silence, but Hermione couldn't bear to look. She was grateful, at least, that her mother seemed to be unconscious and couldn't feel what they were doing.

"How are the rest doing?" the younger one asked.

The other sighed, bone-weary. "The men are in surgery, but the passenger side definitely got the worst of it."

"What about the girl?"

 _The girl? What girl?_ Hermione wondered. And then: _Oh. Right. Me._

"Down the hall in critical care. I hear it's pretty touch-and-go, they're not sure she'll make it."

The younger nurse shook her head sadly. "So young, too."

Hermione's feet carried her out to the hall and down the corridor before her mind had even processed what it was that she'd actually heard. Critical care was a small ward with curtained off beds, but today there was only one occupant.

Approaching the cot with trepidation, what she saw above the blankets - blue-lipped and deathly pale beneath the glare of the fluorescent lights - was her own battered face.

"Well, _fuck_ ," was all Hermione could say.


	19. Extraordinary Memoirs

Reviews are greatly appreciated! Thanks to all who are still reading. Non-graphic violence in this chapter.

Also, I know there are some inconsistencies with Judith's timeline, and I was going to go back and revise everything, but then I remembered that this is fan fiction, and I'm doing it for fun.

Not today, OCD. _Not today!_

* * *

The _One-Eyed Harpy_ was exactly the the hole that she remembered, though this time it seemed miraculously devoid of petty criminals, purveyors of stolen merchandise, or thugs-for-hire. It was not, however, devoid of drunks.

Hermione huddled in her corner, shooting supercilious glances at the other patrons, body language making clear to all who cared to look that she was not only slumming, but utterly unamused.

The door opened, raising up a cloud of dust and admitting a single cloaked figure. The newcomer glanced about, searching the room, then lowered her hood.

"Agatha," Hermione hissed, motioning the witch to her alcove. "Did you get my note?"

The elderly witch raised an eyebrow, wordlessly pointing out the inanity of the question, and sat down.

Embarrassed, Hermione slid a drink across the table. "Err...this is for you."

Agatha picked up the green concoction, the same Vipertooth she'd ordered when they first met here, and raised it in salute. "Much obliged."

This time, Hermione had opted for the Reaper's Revenge, and found, to her great disgust, that is tasted and smelled very much like rancid blood. Still, she sipped it mindlessly as she tried to gather the courage to begin her tale. "Well, thank you for coming," she said at last.

"You called it 'a matter of life and death'. What you didn't specify is who you are, what you want, or how we're acquainted."

"My name is Hermione, and I… well, I know you from the future," she revealed after a moment of hesitation.

Agatha's expression stiffened in shock. "You never should have come here," she whispered vehemently, looking about to make sure no one could overhear their exchange. "Do you even _realize_ what mucking about with the timeline could do?"

"Yes." Hermione, as it happened, knew much better than most. "But there's nobody else I can ask. There's nobody else I trust."

Hermione turned pleading eyes on her companion, and held the witch's gaze even when the shiver of a spell began to probe her thoughts, as she'd already decided to be fully honest.

"Please, you have to help me," Hermione begged. There was nothing left to lose now. She was completely desperate.

"Very well," Agatha agreed reluctantly, after a long silence. "Tell me."

Hermione licked her dry lips. "There was an accident," she began, "Well, what I thought was an accident. Only, I found out that I had really caused it in the first place, by going back to fix it. I saw myself - or my past self saw me - and it caused the explosion that I was trying to prevent. And now my parents are in the hospital and I - the other me - is dying. And if she dies, then I wouldn't have been able to go back from the future, and it would be a paradox. But if she lives and remembers seeing me, then it would also be a paradox, because you're never supposed to meet yourself when traveling."

"Wait - slow down a second. Why would you ever take the risk of trying to 'fix' this accident in the first place?"

"It, ummm…" Hermione mumbled, looking away guiltily. "It killed my mother."

Agatha took a deep draught of her drink, and there was a sorrow in her eyes, as though she understood. "I see. But... as far as I know, the technology to travel back more than a few hours doesn't exist," she pointed out.

"Yes, well, I invented it. Or rather, I _will_ invent it next spring."

The older woman's eyes grew wide. " _You_ invented it? But, how is it done?"

Hermione explained, removing the spiraling time turner from her neck and pointing out its various parts.

"But how did you ever think of it?" Agatha wondered.

"Well, I'm muggleborn, and I know a bit about Muggle math and physics. Some principles are applicable to Numerology, so it was really quite straightforward."

"Muggle math!" Agatha barked a laugh, shaking her head incredulously. "Well, I'll be damned. Who would have ever thought?"

Hermione held back a huff of irritation. Wizards were forever underestimating the achievements of the non-magical world, usually to their own detriment. She, herself, had barely just begun to comprehend the potential of a true synthesis of the magical and the scientific.

"Well, one thing I _can_ do for you," Agatha offered, "Is tell St. Mungos that there's a witch on her deathbed who needs their assistance. They strictly refuse to see muggles, so that's no help to your parents, I'm afraid."

"But what if she - the other me - remembers? Can I obliviate her? Last time I tried a spell near her, it turned into a complete disaster."

"I'm not sure, to be honest with you. You could try the Time Department, but-"

"They're useless," Hermione cut in tersely.

The elder witch snorted her agreement. "Well, there's not much more I can say, unless…" she trailed off thoughtfully.

"Unless what?" Hermione prompted, leaning over the table in her eagerness.

"Well, when the Department was overhauled in the seventies and the Head was sacked, rumor has it that she hid her research away, partially out of spite, and partially because she didn't want to hand a dangerous weapon to the morons who replaced her."

"You're ...you're talking about Judith Mintumble's _original_ notes?" Hermione breathed reverently. It was practically the Holy Grail of knowledge about time travel. "I thought they were gone, destroyed!"

"As far as I know, they're somewhere in the British Library." Hearing Hermione's disbelieving gasp, she continued: "Judith would have wanted to hide her work in the last place the Ministry would ever think to look - the Muggle world."

But almost immediately, Hermione's enthusiasm turned to despondency. "There's millions of books there! How will I ever be able to find it?"

"Well, why don't you try the section on Mysticism and the Occult," Agatha suggested with an ironic grin.

* * *

"Wow," Hermione whispered, gazing in awe at the seemingly limitless multitude of tomes before her. The Hogwarts Library, considered one of the largest in the wizarding world, was positively dwarfed by the comparison. She felt, in that moment, a defiant pride for what the Muggle world - _her_ world - had brought into existence, through centuries of toil, and struggle, and the relentless pursuit of knowledge - completely unaided by sorcery. This was her legacy, her _birthright_. This was the magic that she could bring to wizards: the magic of science.

"Can I help you?" an irritated voice cut through these lofty thoughts, snapping Hermione's attention back to the librarian before her, who could easily have passed for Irma Pince's sister, in temperament if not in appearance."There's a dozen people behind you in line."

"Err...yes. I was told that you may have some of the old research papers of a woman named Judith Mintumble's here? They would have been deposited some 20 years ago."

"Hmphh," was the disgruntled response, as the woman began to search the computer catalog. "Let's see here. Pertaining to that name I have… one entry on estate tax accounting, one on indigenous Scottish fungi, and one titled "The Extraordinary Memoirs of Mrs. Whatsit, Mrs. Who, and Mrs. Which."

Hermione couldn't help but smile at that; Judith, it seemed, had a curious sense of humor. "Oh, it's definitely the last one," she said.

But when she wandered into the aisles to retrieve the book, she found that it was missing under the reference. Not only that, but the prickling sensation of being observed refused to leave her. "They might be watching you," Agatha had declared cryptically, refusing to elaborate on who "they" were or why they would bother. And sure enough, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a woman sneaking surreptitious glances at her from behind a newspaper.

 _Just my bloody luck_ , Hermione thought, remembering her promise to herself to leave the intrigue to the professionals. But if she had to do it - and now it seemed unavoidable - she would at least do it right.

Wandering casually out of the woman's line of sight, Hermione waited to see if she would follow, and was unnerved to see her cross the next aisle a moment later.

Her heart beat a mile a minute as she withdrew deeper into the stacks, thoughtlessly rummaging in her bag for something tha

* * *

t might get her out of this, short of using magic in a building absolutely crawling with muggles. Finally, her fingers closed around a small bottle, the remnants of a batch of Polyjuice with Lucius Malfoy's hair in it, and she uncorked it and took a swig.

 _There_ , she thought triumphantly, looking down at her morphing body, _that should definitely get them off track._

Doubling back to the place where Judith's book should have been, Hermione scanned the shelves again, and then all the surrounding shelves. Just when she'd begun to lose hope, she spotted a thin volume with gilded lettering on the side; it seemed to be calling her faintly.

She pulled it out. _The Extraordinary Memoirs of Mrs. Whatsit, Mrs. Who, and Mrs. Which_ , the title read, but inside, the book was completely blank. Unreasonably disappointed, Hermione considered going to look for the estate-tax accounting thing, but what she saw when she looked up left her frozen in her tracks.

There, not five feet away, was the woman from before, staring _directly at her_ with a look of absolute bewilderment etched on her disconcertingly familiar face. Hermione shrunk back in shock, but the woman followed, drawing closer, her eyes darting over every inch of Malfoy's frame.

"I - " the woman began to say, but Hermione didn't wait for the other shoe to drop: she pulled out her wand and apparated, secrecy statutes be damned.

She'd had no clear destination in mind, but was somehow relieved when she landed in the middle of her parents' living room. The house seemed eerily silent, altered in some permanent,ineffable way since she'd been there last, though nothing was out of place. Her parents, and her other self, were still in the hospital.

Sinking down on the settee, suddenly bone-weary, Hermione examined the thin volume in her lap.

"Specialis revelio," she tossed out, figuring it was worth a shot. No sooner had she spoken the words than ink began to appear upon the smooth paper. There were dozens of unintelligible diagrams and pages upon pages of obscure calculations. She leafed through these with confusion, until she came upon a block of writing, and began to read:

...

 _Today is a good day._

 _Arcarus Rockwood is dead - a retribution long, long overdue._

 _They called the entire department to St. Mungos to pay our respects,_ _and with my luck, of course I end up sat by the bereaved: widow Rockwood, who surely must have wept a sea already, and her accursed spawn, Augustus. How I despise the hypocrisy of funerals, the endless reminiscences - but carefully revised! - about the dead one loathed in life, the second-rate hors d'oeuvres, the way the blacks don't match. My gods, I hope upon my death they have the decency to burn me where I lay, and let that be the end._

 _Coward that he was, Arcatus waited til his death-bed to confess to me in writing what I've already known for years. But, I care not for your apologies, old man! Go beg forgiveness from the Reaper, and may he kick you in the pants for your trouble._

 _My_ _mother's name has turned to acid on the tongues of her former colleagues, and it is due to you! She ought to be remembered as the greatest researcher that ever lived, and not some tragic parable about meddling with cosmic forces. I hope the poison fruit of your ambition festered like an ulcer, tormenting you slowly before it led you to the grave._

 _I must confess - your mere death has left me unsatisfied._

…

Hermione turned the page, but the back was covered in more calculations. There were other bits of text, but it was hardly a journal - more like a collection of unconnected observations.

...

 _The eldest Black daughter came by again, demanding answers in that way she has, as though it is_ she _that is doing_ you _the favor. The boys in the office can't get enough of her; they loiter nearby, pretending to file, trying to catch a whiff of her perfume. Ah, to be young and beautiful, and full of the unshakable belief that life still owes you something!_

 _Little do you suspect, my girl, that you won't really see_ yourself _til decades hence, when the first blush of youth has long since faded from you cheeks - only then, in the cold, clear light of middle age, will you dare to turn that imperious judgement inward._

 _But finding me indifferent to her petulant threats, she's flounced away upstairs again. Nobody likes it down here in the great Basement of Mysteries, besides the rats and me. Our benevolent overlords on the Wizengamot Appropriations Committee have slashed my budget yet again, and I've been forced to reassign young Bode, my assistant._ _They fear my work and hope to starve me out of my position, but the only way I'll be leaving this office before the job is done is in handcuffs. Or a body bag. Whichever comes first._

…

 _All your life, you think of yourself as an average person, and then the day comes when others start avoiding sharing a lift with you. They call you "Mad-house Min" behind your back, afraid that if they get too close, the inertia of their mediocrity will give way, and you'll pull them up into your stellar orbit. They would only be so lucky!_

 _So here I sit - at the very apex of my career, having today not only travelled back in time 300 years, but made a safe return - certain that this knowledge will never be allowed to see the light of day. They have already dug my grave, though I am still alive, and loiter at the ledge just waiting for a chance to push me in._

 _But first, I will undo the wrongs which have destroyed my family. I will destroy Rockwood._

 _The wizard who sent my mother back with a_ _faulty time turner. Were you merely lost in the excitement of a new discovery? Was her life an acceptable sacrifice in the pursuit of science? Or did you deliberately plan her death to steal her research and her job? These are answers I will never have._

 _But I know that she came back half-dead, I know that she was getting better, and I certainly know that you kidnapped her from St. Mungos and forced her to jump._

 _You have taken so much from me that merely taking your life won't be enough. No, I will take your family, your legacy, your name, as you have taken hers. I will wipe your ancestors from the face of the earth. I will kill you by making sure you were never born._

...

 _It_ _is widely believed that while the past can be visited, it cannot be changed. And, indeed, some will find that circumstances either prevent the change completely, or that their efforts were already always a part of the course of events. But to conduct a close examination of my mother's case is to admit that it is indeed possible to change the past, or more accurately, to rechannel it's eternal waters to a different shore._

 _I've spent decades trying to understand why her journey resulted in the non-existence of the 25 who were unborn when she returned, and I conclude that her behavior in the 14th century was the cause. You see, my mother was a woman of some refinement, a woman to whom the brutal world of the Middle Ages must have seemed like hell on earth. So, when she came upon a group of innocent muggles accused of witchcraft, she freed them from their fiery fate, and set in motion a series of events that would eventually lead to the demise of their substitutes in our own time._

 _Death is an immutable fact, an inevitably - but an indiscriminate one. Energy must pass from being to being, but the specific origin and the specific destination don't matter. It is only crucial that balance be maintained. For a life to be saved, another life - somewhere, somehow - must be taken._

 _My own experiments during my sojourn to the 17th century have given credence to this theory -_

 _..._

Hermione turned the page, but there was nothing on the back, as though the author had been called away mid-sentence.

She recalled that Judith was in prison for a murder she evidently committed during this "soujourn to the 17th century", and wondered whether she'd done it just to test a theory. At any rate, it was clear that the witch had a tenuous relationship with her own sanity. Still, Hermione couldn't help but feel a stab of pity, especially since she knew what had become of her. Her youth had been so tragic, and she'd been able to find neither justice nor peace in her life.

Sinking back into the cushions wearily, Hermione shut the book in her lap, but the moment she did, the pages caught alight, withering to a pile of ash in her hands before she could think to grab her wand. Strangely, this neither frightened nor frustrated her, but seemed, somehow, an appropriate closure to this unhappy tale.

She knew only that she didn't want her life to end like Judith's. And, knowing that, her path was plain to see.

* * *

 _Balance_. It all came down to _balance_.

She'd utterly misunderstood its relevance before, but now she knew what Judith meant when she'd spoken of the symmetry of the hour glass. The sand flowed from one vessel to the other, back and forth - nothing added, nothing lost.

 _Energy must pass from being to being, but the specific origin and the specific destination don't matter. For a life to be saved, another life - somewhere, somehow - must be taken._

Thus, Hermione found herself at the bedside of Mr. Engel, her parents' partner in their dentistry practice, who'd been inside the car during the accident, and was still recovering. He'd suffered a few abrasions, a broken arm, and a concussion, and, despite his considerable age, was likely to be the first of the four to be released. Hermione had known him her entire life, had viewed him as something of a grandfather figure.

Grabbing ahold of the pillow before her resolve crumbled completely, she took a shaking breath and placed it over his face.

Seconds passed in utter stillness, and then he gulped for breath, and started to struggle.

His hands flailed wildly, grasping at her, and she began to use force, leaning into him with all of her body weight. Though he fought valiantly at first , Mr. Engel soon tired and, dropping his arms, spasmed unnaturally, as though electrocuted.

The heart-monitor beside him took up a frantic beat, as if begging her to stop in his stead, and Hermione drew back in shock, dropping the pillow.

Mr. Engel took long, gasping breaths, his face florid, his eyes blood-shot. He gazed around in bewilderment, right through the still-invisible Hermione, searching for his would-be assassin. A nurse rushed in, and seeing the state of her patient, called reinforcements. As the room filled with people fussing about the terrified old man, Hermione made her retreat.

She stood in the doorway of her mother's room, staring transfixed at the figure on the bed, for what seemed like a small eternity. The feeling of deja-vu was gnawing at her stomach, and she'd never imagined that it could possibly be worse than the first time, but it was. It was _so_ much worse.

"Mum," she whispered, drawing near to lean over the unconscious woman, "I think I'm going mad."

Hermione had never thought that she could seriously harm anyone, but there she was, moments after having tried to take a life. Was it really _her_ who'd done that? All of it seemed like some terrible, surreal, too-vivid dream.

Forcing her fist against her teeth to trap a sob, she realized that her parents would hate her if they knew. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I tried."

But there was no response, no forgiveness, no condemnation. Her mother lay oblivious, lost to the distant land of dreams.

"But I couldn't do it," Hermione brokenly confessed. "I just couldn't - "

Suddenly, an alarm sounded out in the hall, followed by the rush of footsteps.

"What the hell happened? He was fine a minute ago!" called the nurse with the nasally voice.

"I don't know," another nurse responded. "Get the defibrillator in here. It's like his heart's just … _stopped_."

Hermione gasped in shock. _Hadn't she just left him alive?_ Gasping, winded, but still - _alive_?

And she was fully intending to go investigate, but a strange tingling in her wrist drew her attention. She watched in awe as, right before her eyes, the jagged scar across her skin turned white, and faded completely away.

* * *

Shameless reference to "A Wrinkle in Time" here ;)


	20. Sex, and Other Agonies Pt 1

This chapter contains (non-graphic) torture. For those who don't want to read backstory, you can skip the first block of italics.

* * *

In one dark corner of Malfoy Manor, Bellatrix dreamt.

 _She was back in the old training room at the Department, the other recruits moaning with exhaustion beside her as they battled their way through the obstacle course. Sending jinxes and hexes in every direction, she watched as the test-dummies dropped like flies all around. Rushing forward, she left the others behind. The first one through, once again._

 _"Black! Get over here!" Moody shouted from his perch in the corner, and she walked toward him wearily, knowing what was coming._

 _"What?" she demanded, terse. "Sir," she remembered to add, at the last second._

 _The Auror grinned at her cheek, but his scarred lip made it look more like a sneer. "Nearly five minutes? You're getting sloppy, kid. I think you can do better than that. Go again."_

 _Bellatrix grunted in irritation, mopping sweat from her forehead with an unladylike motion. "Why? I'm still ahead of all these other morons," she whined._

 _"You said you want a recommendation to the Hit Wizards - well you're gonna have to earn it. Now. Go. Again," he said, tone leaving no room for argument. As she turned around with a dramatic sigh, he added, "You're still too slow. Cut your time in half, then we'll talk."_

 _Clenching her fists, Bellatrix fought to keep silent. It was pointless to argue with Moody. He was relentless, pushing her harder than the rest of them, always denying her praise, picking at her weaknesses ruthlessly…_

 _The bastard was obviously trying to goad her into quitting the program, but she would be damned before she gave him the satisfaction. Even if she was only here because they wanted to use her. Even if they seemed determined to drive her mad though "surprise" inspections and sheer exhaustion. She was a Black, and Blacks finished what they started. Always._

 _She walked back to starting position in a haze of furious determination. The course rearranged itself the moment she stepped up, the wooden figures aligning before her in dueling stance._

 _"Hey," a quiet voice called her, and Bellatrix stopped short as a hand tugged on her elbow. Turning, she saw that it was the Fawley girl, standing before her with that typical mocking smile. "Water?" she offered, gesturing to her flask._

 _Bellatrix looked between the girl and the flask in confusion, as though the offer was the strangest she'd ever heard. But before she could answer, Fawley brought the metal to her lips and took a long swig. "It's not poison," she smirked._

Yes it is _, a voice in Bella's head screamed desperately, even as she took the outstretched flask and bought it to her mouth, replacing those smirking lips with her own. Hating the thought. And yet -_

 _And yet…_

As though her mind wouldn't let itself enter those dangerous waters, Bellatrix woke with a start.

Every joint protested as she gingerly picked herself up from the floor, reminding her that she wasn't in her thirties - or, gods forbid, her twenties - anymore. For a dazed minute, she squirted at her surroundings, trying to figure out where the hell she was, and then -

"Miss Bellatrix is awake!" came a squeal, one that could no longer be contained. "Kreacher is so happy!"

Her head snapped towards the sound, and to her immense surprise, Bellatrix saw her old house elf practically kneeling at her feet. "K-kreacher?" she stuttered, completely nonplussed.

The little elf clasped his hands together, looking at her with teary eyes. "Oh, Kreacher never thought he would see Miss Bellatrix again!"

"I ...um…" she faltered for words. "Does Narcissa know you're here?

"Oh yes, Miss Narcissa has sent Kreacher to ask Miss Bellatrix to lunch!" he nodded enthusiastically, and she knew he'd probably been standing there for a long time, hours perhaps, unwilling to wake her.

"Very well," she said, hiding her unease behind a mask of indifference. But the truth was that seeing the elf again brought a sharp pang to her chest, though she couldn't have described the feeling if she tried, except to say that it was like seeing a ghost from another life. A life where she still had Andromeda, still had her mother, still had her innocence. But it didn't seem quite real anymore; Azkaban had drawn a pall over those years, and the memories came hazy, if they came at all.

They made their way to the dining room in silence, and she allowed Kreacher to hold the door for her, though it caused the aged creature tremendous effort to push the heavy wood.

"Nice of you to join us at last," Narcissa remarked casually, though her eyes were piercing her with their questions, scanning every inch with what Bellatrix mentally referred to as the "mum look". True, it was thanks to Narcissa's efforts over the past few months that she'd regained some measure of her magic and her sanity, but to admit it was far too much to ask.

"I need my beauty sleep, Cissy," she ground out, hating her sister's ever-so-subtle fussing. Kreacher pulled out her chair with a great heave, and she sank into it carelessly, looking upon the lunch spread with distaste, her stomach was threatening revolt every minute.

At the far end of the table, Lucius made his presence known. "Yes well," he muttered nastily from behind his paper, "Passing out by the toilet every night seems to be doing wonders for your complexion."

"Lucius!" Narcissa gasped in shock. "How can you speak to her that way?"

Instead of answering, the blond wizard merely turned a page.

Drawing a shaking breath to reign in her anger, Narcissa raised her wand and fired a hex with vicious precision. It struck the paper dead-center, leaving a gaping hole that quickly burned away at the edges, until the whole thing crumbled to dust in her husband's lap.

A silent stand-off ensued, as the Malfoys tried to out-shout each other with eyes alone, and Bella tried hard not to snort into her tea. The two of them had been having a non-stop tiff since '74, punctuated with frequent bouts of make-up sex, which Bellatrix had most unfortunately once walked in on.

Finally, some unspoken consensus was reached, and Lucius picked up another copy of the Prophet, while Narcissa turned to her with a rather stiff smile.

"Isn't it wonderful to have Kreacher back with us?" she gushed, glancing at the little elf, who seemed to be glowing with pride. "It's impossible to find good help these days - it's really a dying art. I'm hoping he can teach our other elves how to properly carry out their duties."

Bellatrix raised her eyebrow at this overboard flattery. They were all fond of the old elf, certainly, but Narcissa's meaningful gaze seemed to imply that there were other matters at hand.

"Poor Kreacher has been stuck at Grimmauld all these years," Narcissa explained pointedly. "Until Cousin Sirius kicked him out."

"Well, he was always a little idiot," Bellatrix murmured, as the pieces begun to come together in her head. _They could use Kreacher to get to Sirius, and they could use Sirius to get to the Order._

All of a sudden, she felt a surge of gratitude for her sister. Narcissa could have taken this to her husband, but she was handing it to Bellatrix instead, knowing that the other witch needed something to rekindle the Dark Lord's confidence in her. And she was doing it right under Lucius' self-important nose.

Sparing a glance for the blond-haired wizard, who was still engrossed in his newspaper and clearly believed himself above discussing such matters as housekeeping, Bellatrix choked back a gasp as she caught sight of a photo on the front page.

"Who is this?" she demanded, snatching the Prophet away and bringing it right to her nose to squint at the little image.

" _That_ is Harry Potter," Lucius huffed in irritation. "Surely even _you_ must know that."

"Not _him_ ," she hissed, " _Her_." Throwing down the paper, she pointed at the figure standing behind the boy, the face in profile, dim in his shadow.

Lucius shrugged. "Some mudblood schoolgirl, I think."

"Granger," Narcissa added. "Or some such thing. She is in Draco's year."

 _No_ , Bellatrix thought, _it's impossible. It was just a dream, a vision…_

But how could her mind recreate an exact image of a girl she'd never met? Her features were blurry in the photo, but it was unmistakably the same face, the same dark curls.

"Speaking of filth," Lucius went on, blind to his sister-in-law's bewilderment, "The Dark Lord has asked me to pass on a request. We have in our custody a certain Emmeline Vance. I think you'll remember her from the war?"

Forcing her attention from the girl in the picture, Bellatrix sneered at Lucius, knowing that it galled him to play messenger-boy to his rival. "And what is this request?" she asked, all false sweetness.

"The Dark Lord wants you to find out the nature of her business at the Muggle Ministry," Lucius grudgingly admitted.

Her smirk widened. "Let me guess...you already tried, couldn't get anything out of her, hmmm?" she goaded. "Realized you needed the big guns?"

He opened his mouth to retaliate, glanced at his wife, whose expression was dark with warning, and thought better of it. "She's in the dungeons," he said instead.

"Well," she stretched leisurely and stood, addressing her sister, "I suppose duty calls."

It was all she could do to resist the temptation to stick her tongue out at Malfoy, though she did give him a subtle pat on the head as she walked by, careful to hide the gesture from Cissy. She knew he would seethe over it until dinner, at least, and the thought filled her with glee. You had to take your pleasure however you could in this life, after all.

Kreacher watched her go, adoration writ large on his grubby features, and she spared him a nod. But the second the door closed behind her, the second she was alone in the hall, something like dread seized her gut and refused to let go.

The walk to the basement seemed endless.

Yellow-haired Malfoy ancestors stared down upon her from all directions, judging silently. Why did she feel like she was going to her own interrogation, her own execution? Why did the lush carpets beneath her feet suddenly resemble the cold, wet flagstones of Azkaban?

 _I am Bellatrix bloody Lestrange_ , she told herself sternly.

But her ears were ringing with the distant echo of wailing. There was death in the air, and it tasted like the sea.

 _Feared by thousands_ , a voice in her head insisted.

She had the distinct sensation of being dragged forward, as though against her will.

 _Feared by millions!_ the voice screamed.

Merlin, she hadn't had to give herself a pre-torture pep-talk since she was a girl.

And suddenly, the door to the dungeons was before her, ominous and uncompromising, demanding that she enter. She'd made that walk a dozen times at least - waited for the anticipation to build, listened for their fearful breathing beyond - so why should it bother her now?

But before she could consider the question, the choice was made, and the door opened. It was one of Lucius's lackeys, gesturing her inside, where, in the center of the dingy little cell, a witch knelt.

Emmeline Vance was a dreadful picture, with her tattered hair and bloody mouth, made even more disconcerting when she smiled grimly. " _Bellatrix_." Her voice was hardly more than a rasp, and it grated on the dark witch's nerves like nails on a chalk board. "It's been a long time."

"Emmeline." She nodded, tone almost courteous, noticing that the woman sported a black eye and a bruised jaw - the marks of a true amateur. Lucius' doing, no doubt.

Legilimency was always her first line of attack, but after a cursory look through the woman's mind, Bellatrix knew it was useless. Dumbledore enchanted all of his minions with secrecy spells that couldn't be broken, and Vance, as she vaguely remembered, was a competent Occlumens.

Pacing the cell in circles to build her captive's anxiety, Bellatrix tested the waters: "Why don't you tell me what you're doing poking around the Muggle government."

"You know I can't do that," Vance replied, her gaze unfaltering. Bellatrix studied her - the way she held herself, not stiff at all, as though preparing her body to take a beating - and knew she had a true believer on her hands.

It was a pity, really. Bellatrix infinitely preferred a coward; they understood the language of punishment and reward, of pain and respite.

"Is there any Veritaserum?" she tossed out casually, eyeing the hulking wizard in the corner.

"Snape's all out," the man responded, trying and failing to keep the fear from his voice. It seemed her reputation preceded her. "He's trying to make some, though."

"Fine," she snapped, cursing Snape and his uncanny ability to conveniently ruin everything. She turned back to her prisoner. "Well I suppose you're out of luck, then. _Crucio_."

The spell flowed glumly from her wand, hitting Vance in the chest and sending her sprawling backward. She counted down from ten in her head, dispassionately watching the spasms conquer the woman's body. The first salvo really set the entire tone: too much, and the victim would give in and plead for death immediately; too little, and they'd be emboldened to hold out longer.

"Tell me what you're doing with the Muggles," Bellatrix demanded. "Spying for Dumbledore? Spying on their Minister? _Tell me_!"

Vance flinched at the sound of her voice, but struggled to sit up. "No," she said, her voice like gravel.

The woman was strong, Bellatrix would certainly give her that, having herself been on the other end of the wand many a time. But she doubted if Vance realized that this little dance was just a charade: Bellatrix already knew she'd get no confessions from the witch, but she would learn all she needed from her body language, those involuntary responses that only the trained eye could catch. That was the real point here - to overwhelm the conscious mind with pain so that the victim would forget to lie convincingly.

" _Crucio_ ," she cast again, stronger this time. But even as she held the spell, her concentration wavered, and she had to fight to maintain the intensity. Shadowed faces swam before her eyes, mouths agape with silent screams, trying to suck her in.

"Why don't you just tell me how long you've been working there, hmm?" she said softly, trying hard to keep control, to hide her rising panic. "Just tell me that one little thing and I'll make the pain stop."

"N-no…" Vance groaned, curling upon herself.

 _No...Bella…no_ , a long-forgotten voice rattled around her head, and in an instant she was transported back there, the memory so vivid she could taste the ashes in her throat. Rearing back in confusion, Bellatrix involuntarily lowered her wand, watching frozen as Vance shakily wiped the blood from her lips.

 _Get it together_ , Bellatrix thought with a twinge of desperation. The Dark Lord could never see her wand hesitate to rain evil down upon the enemy. _That_ was a certain death sentence.

But as though the words had summoned the devil himself, she suddenly sensed the unmistakable trace of His magic. His aura enveloped her, clouding her thoughts with supreme, breathless joy.

"My Lord…" she whispered, feeling his approach in every fiber of her body, as though he was calling her home, waiting to complete her.

" _Bella_ …" she heard his sibilant reply in her mind, " _Make me proud…_ "

"Yes, My Lord!" she cried, turning upon the kneeling woman. Her Lord always demanded perfection; he knew how to bring out her best.

" _CRUCIO_!" she shouted, sending forth a beam of pure energy that threw her prisoner into the wall across. And for the first time that day, Emmeline Vance screamed - screamed with everything she had - just as a manic cackle rose up in the Death Eater's throat. And Bellatrix laughed and laughed and laughed, more and more with each scream torn from the woman's throat.

" _Enough_ ," came the soft command, and Bellatrix turned, eyes growing large as they fell upon her Saviour, who made even the dirty cell they stood in magnificent by his mere presence.

She bowed, as low as her back would permit.

"My dear Bellatrix," he sighed, genuine regret in his voice as he gazed upon her, "It seems that things are worse than I thought. I fear that I allowed you to languish too long in Azkaban."

"I - I can do better, My Lord," she stuttered, devastated at the thought of having displeased him, having failed to get information from the Vance woman. His disappointment was such a physical pain - akin to losing a limb, she imagined. "I _will_ do better!"

"Well it's a moot point, I suppose," he brushed her pleading aside with a careless hand, "Since nobody seems capable of bringing me the Prophecy. Or Potter, for that matter."

"Please, My Lord," she begged, latching onto her chance for redemption, "Narcissa and I have discovered that our old house-elf has been living with Sirius. Surely, he knows where the boy is! Let me question him for you!"

She trembled violently under his gaze as he considered this proposal, and breathed a sigh of relief when he finally nodded.

"Alright. And I very much hope you're right about this, Bella," he said.

 _For your sake_ , was the unspoken threat, but she heard it all too well.


	21. Sex, and Other Agonies Pt 2

Hello all! Thanks for reading!

This is the last chapter left until the Battle in the Department of Mysteries and the second meeting between Bellatrix and Hermione.

Mortcia Gore: Thanks for your words of encouragement. I think I know why people aren't thrilled with this story, but alas! I can only write it the way my muse demands.

* * *

On a typical evening, Crookshanks liked to hang out under the Grangers' dining room table, alternating being plaintive meows and sulky pawing as he tried to convince one of the humans to share their meal with him. While Hogwarts was full of rats and other delicious vermin for him to snack on, the muggle humans insisted on putting some sort of bizarre dry pebbles next to his water bowl. He'd tried delicately pointing out that he couldn't possibly be expected to eat that by leaving hairballs in the kitchen for a month, but to no avail.

No, the humans merely presented him with a new type of dry pebble, but saltier. Oh the sighs he could have sighed - if only Kneazles could sigh.

But on this particular night, Crookshanks, with the particular insight of his kind, found himself waiting patiently by the back door, though he knew not for what. Right as the cuckoo clock in the hall chimed seven, the door opened. Seeing that no one had entered, he sniffed the air carefully, and decided to venture outside. There seemed to be no one in the garden, but a familiar smell lingered in the air. Familiar, yet...different.

"Hey there, you little orange monster," a voice whispered, and miraculously, a hand appeared from thin air to pet him. "I missed you."

The hand turned over in supplication. An arm followed the hand, and then the whole crouching form was revealed - it was his witch!

"Did you miss me too?" she cooed, scratching under his chin (an act that would have cost another a finger, at least).

" _Meow_ ," he responded. It meant " _you're lucky you have your uses, human_ ," and " _fetch me something juicy and alive at once_ ," and " _I just saw you inside, but it wasn't really you_ " and " _your shampoo smells awful_ ", but he knew that these giant, clumsy creatures could only grasp one simple concept at a time. So he just swished his tail, brushing against her legs gently, and bounded off into the night in search of prey.

Hermione let out a low chuckle, watching him burrow beneath the neighbor's fence. When even the tip of his bottlebrush tail had disappeared, she turned back toward the house.

It was only a few weeks ago that she'd come here to read Judith's journal, but it seemed a lifetime.

Crouching down to keep below window-level, she circled the house until she could see right into the living room. It was dinner time; she watched her dad bustle about with trays of food, followed by the other Hermione. Her mother lay on the couch, and she fought to sit up as the others entered, as though determined to move without assistance. A news program came on the radio, and the three ate in peaceful silence, oblivious to their observer.

Many odd things had transpired since the death of Mr. Engel. The very next morning, Mrs. Granger made a sudden and inexplicable recovery, and though her head wound had left her struggling with memory and speech, she was very much alive. Agatha kept her promise to refer Hermione to St. Mungos, and her doctors were puzzled to find the young girl had vanished from her cot, only to be returned days later in perfect health. Better still, past-Hermione seemed to have no memory of her encounter with her doppelgänger.

But not all developments were good. Somewhere in the chaos of those first days, Hermione's makeshift time-turner had gone missing. One of her theories was that it had simply blinked out of existence on its own, to prevent the paradox of her return to a future where the conditions of its invention would never take place.

The event that prompted this single-minded quest - her mother's death - did not apply to the other-Hermione. How could they coexist within the same timeline, and at what point could she return to take the other-Hermione's place? Especially since the other-Hermione would never need to travel back at all?

These unanswerable questions plagued her every waking moment. She'd been so foolish to think that preventing the accident would solve all of her problems. Instead, every step along this journey seemed to plunge her deeper and deeper into the black hole of paradox.

Having decided not to tempt fate, she'd stayed away from the house as long as she could, to avoid running into her other self. But the need to see her parents again eventually won out against her better sense.

Seeing the three of them alive and well again was more than she'd ever hoped for, and Hermione should have been happy, having accomplished the impossible. But, kneeling there in the dirt outside the window of the house she grew up in, she had the strange sensation of being a spectator to someone else's life. Like watching a nice, relatable sitcom family on the telly, and wishing it was really your family.

And it _was_ , except… it felt as though someone else had been cast to play her part, and everyone pretended not to notice the substitution. And who was the true impostor, after all? The other-Hermione? Or _her_?

She may not have belonged in that cozy familial scene, but there _was_ something she could still do. Remembering her conversation with Tonks many months ago, when she'd complained that Dumbledore had ignored her request to ward her home, Hermione took out her wand.

" _Protego Maxima. Fianto Duri. Repello Inimicum_ ," she chanted again and again, erecting a shimmering shield of magic. Completing this process left Hermione utterly drained, but she was satisfied that she had done a good job.

 _"Goodbye_ ," she whispered, trying to commit to memory the peaceful look on her mother's face. The future was more than uncertain, and she didn't know when she'd return.

Disapperating before anyone could notice her presence, Hermione rematerialized in the front parlor of a decrepit manor. Ironically called Heaven's Gate, it was an old Auror safehouse from the Wizarding War that had definitely seen better days. Dust had made its home in every nook and corner, and the spiderwebs bloomed like ghostly flowers all across the ceiling.

Taking off her coat, Hermione tossed it on the table, right on top of her neatly-organized stacks of research. Tonight - well, tonight she just couldn't be bothered. The more she cleaned this place, the dirtier it seemed to get - and wasn't that the metaphor for her entire life, lately?

While Other-Hermione was out there, running around with her parents in blissful ignorance, she was stuck hiding from the world in this damp mausoleum, surviving on takeout, with only Agatha's infrequent visits to break the monotony of days. What she would have done without the elderly woman's help, Hermione could not say; Agatha had brought her to Heaven's Gate, and had even found her some work writing reports for the Surveillance Department, which Hermione sent into the Ministry every morning - anonymously. The rest of her hours, she spent trying to reconstruct her missing time-turner and work out a plan to reintegrate herself back into the timeline.

The clock struck nine, sending its rhythmic vibrations echoing through the house.

She tried pacing restlessly - isn't that what miserable people did, after all? - but the whining of the floorboards was truly unbearable, and she was forced to stop. Sighing with resignation, Hermione picked her coat off the table, draped it neatly on the rack, and began to straighten her notes. As she shuffled through the piles, a small, yellowed parchment fell out and landed on the floor.

 _Strange_ , Hermione thought, _that's definitely not mine._

But there was so much old rubbish here, it wasn't surprising that it had gotten mixed up with her things. She picked up the paper and unfolded it, seeing that the inside was covered with tiny, spiked script.

...

 _My darling,_ it read.

 _The smell of you lingers on my fingers and I breathe you in all day - an apéritif to whet the palate as I await the feast, a beggar at your table, a penitent before your shrine._

 _It seems an age since I have had you writhe beneath me, at once begging me to stop and to fuck you to the brink of madness. I am haunted by my name on your lips: soft and pleading at first; then rough with desperation; and finally, the sweetest moan of your surrender as you fall apart._

 _Has it only been two weeks? I go mad with desire, mad with visions of your body tangled in my sheets, here where you belong. You will return at once._

 _I implore you._

 _Bellatrix_

...

 _Oh good Lord_ , Hermione thought, blushing faintly. This was surely the most absurd, most pretentious love letter she'd ever read (not that she'd read many) but, still, it sent her pulse to skipping. There could be no doubt as to the author's identity, and more than that, Hermione suspected that it was written to a woman. Was she insane for thinking that, perhaps, this made the impossible … a little _less_ impossible?

But that momentary lapse was over all too soon, and Hermione managed to get ahold of her racing thoughts. Yes, she may have dreamed of having the Death Eater up against the wall in Azkaban a time or ten, but surely she didn't need to fool herself that that fantasy was anything more. Not to mention how unlikely it was that Bellatrix Lestrange's letter had somehow wound up in an Auror hideout. No, it was probably some other Bellatrix with awful penmanship and an exaggerated sense of her own importance.

She was just starved for human contact, that was all. She'd finally shaken loose of her embarrassing fixation with Cho Chang, and it seemed her treacherous mind was only too eager to provide yet another unattainable object to torment her. It was, however, a distraction she could hardly afford at the moment.

There were hundreds of pages of calculations to work though, at least a dozen books to read, scores of references to trace, all laid out, right there on the table…

Where, looking closely, Hermione now noticed the faded scars of scratch marks across the surface. Tracing her fingers in the grooves, it was obvious that the marks had been gouged by a human hand - in a moment of pleasure perhaps, or a moment of agony. She couldn't help but wonder: had Bellatrix been in this very room?

Had she...taken her lover on this very table?

The idea of it made the air seem unbearably thick, the house claustrophobic. Everywhere Hermione looked, a shadow seemed to linger - a quivering, viscous, terrible shadow - threatening to take on a human form. The cloying taste of decay was on her tongue... and in her imagination, it tasted like Bellatrix.

 _I have to get out of here_ , Hermione thought desperately. _I'm going stir crazy._

She'd always loved her solitude, but as it turned out, it was indeed possible to have too much of a good thing. Harry and Ron had been the ones to force her to socialize, and now she made a mental note to thank them - if she ever saw them again, that is.

But going outside meant running the risk of running into someone who knew her. Did she dare to risk it? Especially since the entire Order was currently staying in London? No, it was beyond foolish.

It was then that she remembered that she still had Polyjuice in her bag. Digging it out frantically, she didn't hesitate to chug it down, having grown inexplicably reckless over the past few months. There was nothing like finding yourself entirely severed from your timeline to make you live for the moment.

Stepping out into Muggle London looking like Lucius Malfoy was a strange experience, stranger even than the first time she'd done it after breaking into the Ministry. She walked down the street anxiously - afraid to draw attention even though she'd transfigured his clothes and hair to look mundane - but the passerby hardly spared her a glance.

It was such a relief to look at the sky again, utterly starless in the city. She strolled aimlessly, down this street and that, for what seemed like hours, til her legs grew tired and she spotted a nondescript little pub up ahead.

 _Bad idea_ , _Hermione_ , her common sense counseled, but the thought of having a conversation with another human being for a change (instead of just the mounted troll-heads at Heaven's Gate) proved an irresistible temptation.

Just beyond the door, she found a wall of noise and a crowd of people. It was jarring, and, not knowing what else to do, she wandered over to the bar and took a seat. All around her, people were talking and laughing with their friends, and she watched them with something like bitterness, feeling lonelier even than she had these past weeks. Lonelier even that she had watching Other-Hermione steal her family right out from under her nose.

Hardly five minutes passed before she felt a tap on her shoulder, and looking up, found a woman gazing expectantly at her.

"Excuse me…" she began hesitantly, "But you're an actor, right?"

Hermione almost turned around to see who the woman was talking to, only to catch herself at the last moment when she remembered who she was impersonating tonight.

"'Cause my friend over there swears she's seen you before," the woman continued, gesturing to the corner, where her companion was staring at them in embarrassed hopefulness.

"Sorry, no," Hermione managed after an uncomfortably long silence, surprising herself with the sound of her voice, which had turned deep and rumbling.

"Really?" the woman pressed, clearly disbelieving. "Because you _do_ look awfully familiar…" She drew closer, so close that her perfume overwhelmed Hermione's senses completely, and gazed at her - at Malfoy, that is - as though she were expecting something.

But _what_? Hermione had no idea. It was as though she'd accidentally wandered into some sort of foreign social ritual, one whose customs and conventions were entirely incomprehensible to her. "You're… probably thinking of someone else," she replied, uncomfortable. The fact that this stranger was quite attractive made it all worse, somehow.

 _For the love of God, don't stare at her cleavage_ , Hermione lectured herself, growing more anxious by the second, eyes dancing frantically across the bar, the wall, anything...

"Let me guess," the woman went on, now all amused resignation. "You're married? Or gay?"

"Yes," Hermione sighed, relieved to be given an out, though she couldn't bring herself to specify which of the two she was agreeing with. Her cheeks were on fire, and she was sure it looked even more comical on the face of the patrician Death Eater. Thank Merlin the lights were so dim.

"Pity," the woman murmured, her eyes sliding appreciatively over Malfoy's features. "Well, have a good night, then."

"Goodnight," Hermione croaked out, watching out of the corner of her eye as her tormentor returned to her friend and they took up giggling in the corner.

Well, she certainly felt like a fool. _You should never have come here_ , her rational self reproached, while some other, devilish part rejoined with, _and you just missed your chance to get laid._

 _Shut up shut up shut up!_ she wailed at herself, refusing to admit that that was ever a possibly. Take advantage of some hapless Muggle in the guise of a wizard she despised? Could she ever sink so low?

Hermione honestly couldn't say. After what she'd done to poor Engel, she had no idea what she was capable of anymore.

Just then, she felt a prickling on the back of her neck - the familiar sensation of being watched. Instinctively, her fingers searched for her wand in her pocket, and she tried to look about discreetly.

There were too many people crowding around her, and no faces she recognized. Perhaps she was just being paranoid.

But the feeling refused to pass, and, in a flash of insight, Hermione closed her eyes and tried hard to concentrate on the magical signature in the air, to pinpoint where it was coming from. Catching ahold of it, she turned, and opening her eyes, found herself ensnared in the arctic stare of the woman from the British Library.

Fear ballooned out in her belly and she gasped: here was incontrovertible proof that she was being spied on! But how could they have possibly found her _here_? And who were _they_?

It didn't matter; she had to run, right now.

Edging out of her seat and ducking low behind the crowd, Hermione backed toward the toilets - a solitary place to apparate. But as luck would have it, the little hallway seemed to have been overtaken by a couple locked in a drunken embrace.

"Erm… excuse me…" Hermione muttered, trying to awkwardly edge past the tangle of moaning, flailing limbs. But they were deaf to the world, and she had to push them aside roughly, rushing past as they tripped over each other's feet and fell to the floor.

"Oi! You rude bastard!" came the slurred response, "Git back here - "

But the rest was cut off as she hurtled beyond the door, and shut it. She was just about to apparate, when the door opened and the loud clink of metal on metal reverberated across the tiles.

It was a chilling sound, though it took her a moment to place it.

"Turn around," came the icy command, and as Hermione obeyed, she came face-to-face with the barrel of a gun.

She swallowed loudly. For some reason, this was infinitely more terrifying than having a wand pointed at her.

"Not in a million years did I think I'd find you out in muggle territory, Cousin," the woman from the library said menacingly, her delicate features hardened with loathing.

 _Cousin_? Hermione wondered. _She can't think I'm Malfoy, can she?_ And yet the resemblance was hard to deny, from the superior expression, to the pale hair, to the slate-color eyes. It was hard to say whether this development was good or bad.

"But that's twice now," the woman continued, "And I want to know _why_."

Hermione licked her lips nervously, scanning the room for inspiration, an excuse, an escape. But there was nothing - only the useless realization that the pureblood Death Eater probably wouldn't know a gun from a trowel, so why wouldn't this woman use a wand?

"Unless…" her assailant murmured thoughtfully, scanning the petrified face before her, "You're not Lucius. Are you." It wasn't a question.

Hermione just stared mutely. Nothing was making sense. What the hell was going on here?

As if of their own volition, her fingers fluttered to her coat, searching for her wand, but the woman was faster, shoving Hermione viciously back to the wall. Her head collided with tile and she saw stars.

"Don't even think about it," her attacker hissed, twisting the wand from her hands and pocketing it. "Here's what's going to happen. You and me are going to walk out of here - calm and quiet - like nothing is going on. You so much as breathe wrong, I'm going to make sure you regret it. Understand?"

All Hermione could do was nod as she felt the nudge of cold metal at her ribcage. The fear was paralyzing as every contingency rushed through her mind, each more unspeakable than the last. Not least was the ever-present threat of triggering a paradox, causing the destruction of everything she knew and loved.

The woman led her forward, keeping companionably close in order to hide her weapon. They weaved through the crowd to the exit, and once outside, Hermione was forced to cross the street and enter one of the nondescript townhouses. Her captor kept the gun trained at her head as she led Hermione to a chair and tightly bound her legs together, checked the windows, then walked slowly back and sank into the sofa across.

All of this transpired without a single word. Adrenaline pumped manically through Hermione's veins, transforming her terror to irritation, then to panic, to rage, and back. _Of_ _all the stupid, stupid ways to get yourself killed..._

"Now what?" she snapped, eyeing the woman wearily.

"Now we wait for the Polyjuice to wear off," came the measured response, in tones suggesting that they were a couple of old friends having tea, and not captor and hostage.

Silence settled like a thick layer of dust all around, broken only by the muffled sounds of traffic and their quiet breathing. Hermione studied the room, which was decorated in mid-century style and probably hadn't been inhabited since then either. There was a staircase to the right, and an archway to the left, through which she could see the kitchen and the back door. Could she escape through there? Untie her feet somehow and make a run for it?

But all too soon, the tell-tale spasms of the fading potion wracked her, and she found herself again in her own body.

A sharp inhale came from across. "But...you're Hermione Granger," the woman said, sounding truly shocked. Something like shame flittered across her face - perhaps regretting having attacked a young girl - and she unconsciously lowered her weapon.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Who else would I be?" she demanded, angry and confused. "Why are you spying on me? Who are you working for?"

Her captor gazed at her in what seemed to be sincere confusion. "I'm not spying on you."

"Oh, don't pretend you weren't following me that day," Hermione countered incredulously. "I _know_ you were, I _saw_ you."

"I wasn't really. I know you from the papers. I was just surprised to see a witch there, wanted to say hello."

"And why don't I believe that?" Hermione said, all sarcasm. The terror had abated somewhat now that the gun was out of her face and she noticed the ropes had slackened when she shrunk back to her own body.

"You know, you shouldn't be accusing me of bad intentions when you're the one impersonating Lucius Malfoy," came the airy retort. The woman lounged there, no longer strained and dangerous, as though she considered Hermione no threat at all. For some reason, this annoyed Hermione immensely.

"You're the one who called him cousin," she reminded, trying to keep the conversation going as she studied different parts of the woman's body, trying to remember where her wand had been hidden.

"He's a distant relation."

If she could just figure out where it was, she could try and summon it. _Accio_ was the only wandless, nonverbal spell Hermione was confident with.

Gaze settling on her captor's black sleeve, Hermione had a sudden, fearful thought. "Let me see your arm," she all but whispered.

"You first."

Pursing her lips at the absurdity of the request, she tugged up her sleeve, exposing her unmarked forearm. Across from her, the woman mirrored her action. There was nothing there.

Hermione furrowed her brow. "So this is just some sort of weird coincidence?" It was a little too bizarre to be true, but the woman was either a very good actress, or she'd truly not known who it was she abducted.

"It depends...why are you Polyjuiced to look like that?"

"I needed to look like someone else to go outside, and I happened to have a bit of his hair, alright?" Hermione explained, now hoping that it was possible to de-escalate the situation, and even walk out of here without coming to arms.

"And why would you need to look like someone else to go outside?" the woman asked skeptically.

"Well, it's…" _what the hell could she possibly say?_ "It's complicated."

The woman shrugged lightly, looking genuinely curious. "I've got nowhere to be tonight."

Something had been niggling at the back of Hermione's mind since the pub, a whisper of an idea, and she finally caught ahold of it. It would explain everything, the location, the gun, the barely-there trace of a magical signature...

"You're a squib," she declared, almost certain that she was right. "I bet the Malfoys weren't thrilled about that."

One pale eyebrow slowly rose, as though impressed against its will. The woman may have been a product of centuries of inbreeding, but she was a very pretty product nonetheless, Hermione had to admit.

"I was ...disowned," the woman admitted. "Which if fine with me, since I find their beliefs abhorrent."

"Their blood-purity beliefs?"

"Not just. The way my family treats house elves and other magical creatures is terrible."

Hermione couldn't help it - maybe that didn't make her like the woman instantly, but the feeling was certainly close. How often, after all, did you find a pureblood who recognized the mistreatment the house-elves suffered? For that, she could almost forgive being held at gunpoint.

The woman stood, walking over to the sideboard and taking out a couple of glasses. Her back was turned, and Hermione took the chance to scan her body, noticing the faint outline of her wand at her hip with relief. But there was something else, something familiar that she just couldn't put her finger on...until her eyes wandered down shapely legs to a pair of brutal-looking high-heeled shoes.

And she remembered that winter night when she'd wandered the streets near the Ministry, remembered that she'd seen this woman before, remembered that she'd been caught staring with undisguised lust. But in the regular timeline, that was still several months away.

"I haven't seen Lucius in a decade at least, not since his trial. Never wanted to again, either," the woman explained, pouring twin measures of amber-colored liquid and offering one to Hermione, perhaps as a peace offering. "I may have gotten a little carried away."

"I saw you coming out of the Muggle Ministry of Defense," Hermione blurted out, unsettled under the woman's intense scrutiny.

"I work there. On assignment from Magical Law Enforcement, to keep an eye on things."

She resumed her seat, crossing her legs casually, curved thighs practically demanding Hermione's attention. Now that it was no longer clouded with fear, her mind began to wander into more dangerous territory.

Trying not to fidget, Hermione took a sip of her drink instead - the very first she'd ever had. It burned as it traveled down her throat, leaving a not-unpleasant throbbing in its wake.

 _Just take your wand and go, you idiot_ , Hermione told herself, _it's not like she can stop you_. Sure, she was armed and lightning-quick, but Hermione was a witch, and a good one at that. But she just couldn't seem to move, her eyes glued to the lightly bouncing foot in front of her.

There was a knowing smile playing about the woman's mouth, as though she knew exactly what Hermione was thinking. "So, rumor has it that you assisted in the second escape of Sirius Black," she said.

And just like that, Hermione was on edge again. "W-why would I do that?" she stuttered, nervously sipping her drink.

How could anyone possibly know that? Frankly she was shocked that her name was even familiar to her erstwhile captor; she'd always assumed that she flew under the radar as just some muggle-born classmate of the Great and Famous Harry Potter.

"Please, not everyone is as stupid as the Minister," the woman scoffed. "The Aurors know Black wasn't a Death Eater."

Hermione's face grew incredulous. "Then why are they still hunting him?"

"Because the public needs a believable scapegoat. If it came to light that an innocent man had been imprisoned for more than a decade, that Peter Pettigrew was still alive, and working for You Know Who-"

"Wait a second," Hermione interrupted, "All of this is so Fudge can keep his _job_?"

This thought was closely followed by, _she's just admitted the Aurors know about Voldemort._

"No, it's to prevent mass panic. To preserve people's faith in the legal system and the Ministry as an institution."

Hermione just gaped at her, hardly able to believe what she was hearing. She'd always known that the Ministry was awful, corrupt... but hearing it stated as simple fact was another thing entirely. "And what happens when people start dying again?" she demanded furiously. "When Voldemort comes out in the open?"

The woman's involuntary flinch at the name was subtle, but unmistakable. "They'll probably toss Fudge under the bus then," she said, with a minute shrug. "He'll be blamed for mismanaging the whole situation, of course."

"But people need to be warned!" Hermione insisted, not knowing how naive she truly sounded. "They need to protect themselves!"

"People can't 'protect' themselves against You Know Who," the woman explained, with the patience one reserves for an obstinate child. "They'll just become paralyzed with fear, lock themselves in their houses, like they did last time. Everything - commerce, international relations - will completely fall apart. The Department wants to resolve this quietly before that happens."

"But it's … it's..." Hermione couldn't quite find the words, instead jumping to her feat in agitation, hardly noticing that she'd easily stepped out of the ropes which had bound her. "How are they going to manage to 'resolve it'? They think they can kill Voldemort? And people have a right to know! It's completely unethical to hide the fact that we're on the brink of a war!" she went on heatedly. Regret caught up with her a moment later as the room tilted slightly on its edge, and she belatedly realized that at some point she'd finished her drink.

The woman watched her, thoughtful, as Hermione leaned against the sideboard for balance. "I didn't say I agreed. I'm just telling you how the world works."

Hermione crossed her arms defiantly. "Well, I don't accept that."

That seemed to draw an involuntary smile from her companion, and she rose, walking over to the younger girl. She stood a little too close, and as though pulled by some invisible force, Hermione's eyes traveled from her eyes, to her mouth, and lower...

"I saw that girl talking to you at the pub," the woman murmured, her voice almost sultry. "She was pretty."

"She - she was?" Hermione gulped stupidly, noticing for the first time that the woman's lipstick was red, bright red.

"Didn't you notice? What is she, not your type?"

"I … umm, I don't have a type," Hermione barely managed to croak, trying desperately to shrink back into the wall. But there was no where else to go. And if she were honest, she didn't want to go anywhere anymore.

"Really? Well, I do," the woman whispered, drawing impossibly closer. "That hopeless idealist thing you've got...it's terribly sweet, you know."

"Oh," Hermione breathed, mesmerized by that blood-red mouth, hardly understanding what she was hearing. "Oh."

 _Oh my god, is this really happening?_

"My wand…" she begged, with the very last shred of her better sense.

The woman gave a throaty chuckle. "Take it."

Hermione let out a ragged breath, and reached for her wand, fingers brushing along woman's waist. She grasped the thin wood at last, but her treacherous fingers lingered, and it seemed not even Circe herself could have stopped their journey downward, to the hem of the woman's skirt.

 _Hermione Jean Granger!_ a voice that sounded disturbingly like Mrs. Weasley scolded. _You are drunk!_

And so she was, though how it had happened so quickly, she couldn't possibly say. They were pressed urgently together, Hermione's mind swimming in a haze of excitement, when she felt just the faintest trace of a spell probing her mind. But it was over in a second as her hands slid over a bare stomach, and she watched as the woman moaned, distracted.

Everything after that was a blur of clothes, and skin, and mouths, and she was dimly aware of being awkward and graceless, but it didn't seem to matter at all in the moment.

But of course, it was the first thing she thought when she woke the next morning, wondering if she'd been as terrible as she always suspected she would be.

"Ughhh…" Hermione groaned, half in pain and half in embarrassment, as she struggled into a sitting position. Trying to ignore the dreadful throbbing at the base of her skull, Hermione squinted at her surroundings, seeing that she'd somehow ended up in a bedroom. Moreover, she was completely naked, and completely alone.

It was probably for the best; if she looked half as bad as she felt, the last thing she needed was a witness to the entire sad mess.

"Definitely not your brightest moment, Hermione," she muttered, nearly flinching at the loudness of her own voice. Scooting to the edge of the mattress carefully, as though afraid that any sudden movement would bring up the contents of her stomach, she rose to unsteady feet and begun to search for her clothes.

It all seemed to be missing, save for her bra and one shoe, but fortunately she did find her wand, and was able to transfigure some things from the sheets.

The sound of clinking china came from the room beyond, and Hermione nearly jumped out of her socks with fright, and considered just apparating right then. But that would be too much like slinking away with her tail between her legs, wouldn't it? She wasn't a Gryffindor for nothing, was she? But more importantly she had questions, loads and loads of questions. Like: what had the woman seen in her mind last night? Why had she revealed so much of the Ministry's schemes? What exactly was her role in all of this?

Steeling herself for what was sure to be an uncomfortable conversation, she forced herself to the door. She'd been expecting to find the woman on the other side, but instead was shocked to see only a wizard, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea and the Daily Prophet open before him.

Hermione stared at him in utter bewilderment, as he looked up from his paper and nodded a cordial good morning.

"Where is-" she began, only to realize that she had no idea what the woman's name even was. "Where is she?"

"Evelyn?" the man said, his voice betraying no awareness of how intensely awkward the situation was. "At work, I imagine. She called me. I've been waiting for you to wake."

"And who exactly are you?" Hermione asked, studying his grey-streaked mane, his hardened face, and the familiar badge on his chest with a growing feeling of dread.

"Rufus Scrimgeour, Department of Magical Law Enforcement," he introduced, gesturing to chair across. "Please have a seat Miss Granger. We need to talk."

She gulped, the sound unnaturally loud in the little kitchen. "A- About what?"

Scrimgeour gazed at her levelly over the rim of his spectacles, as though sizing her up like a prize lamb for slaughter. "About the death of a certain Muggle named Engel ," he said at last, tone giving nothing away. "And about what you're going to do to keep yourself out Azkaban."


	22. The Department of Mysteries Pt 1

Hello all! Thanks for the lovely reviews! They are much appreciated.

This chapter includes direct quotes out of OOtP Chs 34-36, as well as the same basic plot structure. I'm assuming people are familiar with all that, but unfortunately I couldn't seem to avoid some repetition for the sake of keeping the the story flowing. So, feel free to skim?

Obviously, this chapter contains (non-graphic) torture and death. Also, to clarify: the last chapter takes place in fall of '95 and this one in the spring of '96.

* * *

Being a Death Eater was not as exciting as people probably imagined it was, Bellatrix thought, watching her so-called colleagues squabble like children at the end of the hall.

"Did you try _Alohomora_?" Macnair hissed at Jugson, who was stabbing his wand insistently at the little plaque reading "Department of Mysteries", a complicated schematic in his other hand.

" _Alohomora_? You don't say! I never would have thought of that!" Jugson exclaimed sarcastically. "Stupid git," he continued under his breath, just loud enough for the words to echo all along the corridor.

Macnair gaped at him, face quickly turning a rather unsightly shade of purple. "Who you callin' stupid, you stinkin' half-blood piece of-"

"Come now, gentlemen!" came the pompous interruption as Rodolphus pushed past her and approached the others. "Perhaps you can resolve this without coming to fisticuffs - _again_?"

"Tell that to this knucklehead," Jugson muttered with a nod toward the balding Ministry executioner.

"Yer _mum_ sure liked my head though, eh?" Macnair mocked childishly, just as the other leapt towards him with hands outstretched, forcing Rudolphus and Nott to restrain the would-be combatants. It all quickly devolved into a jumble of kicking and punching and incoherent shouting.

Bellatrix couldn't help but roll her eyes.

"Oh, you want to _go_ , let's _go_ \- "

She sighed. Where the hell were Malfoy and Rockwood?

"For the love of Merlin, you two, calm _down_ \- "

They'd been gone an hour, trying to figure out how to get that bloody door open. It was a miracle really that Potter wasn't here by now with how long this was all taking.

"I'll kick yer fucken' face in - "

Quickly coming to the end of her very limited patience, Bellatrix growled, causing the Death Eaters beside her to step back in alarm. " _BOMBARDA_ _MAXIMA_!" she cried, sending a jet of energy right at the door, forcing Jugson, Macnair, and the others to leap aside, narrowly escaping being blown to bits. The door, however, was not so lucky; it splintered into a thousand shards, which rained down upon them all like a sparkling black hail.

"There, problem solved," she announced smugly, as every face turned to regard her in shock. "Maybe now the two of you can get your big-boy pants on?"

"You do realize that nothing can look out of place for Potter?" came the haughty response as Malfoy descended the staircase at the far end, tailed closely by that rat, Rockwood.

Bellatrix let out a harsh breath, reminding herself for the hundredth time that it wouldn't do to maim her sister's husband, even though he had inexplicably been put in charge of this mission. "Well, that's not _my_ problem, is it? I got us in, didn't I?"

"Alright, alright," Rodolphus placated, ever the self-appointed peacemaker, "Let's just find this prophesy first, shall we?"

"Very well, why don't you take your _lovely_ wife and search the premises," Malfoy sneered, making Bella's jaw tighten in fury. Oh, how she loathed being referred to as somebody's _wife_. "Jugson, you and Dolohov can check the upper floors for night guards. The rest of you, help me clean this up."

Following her husband into the bowels of the Department of Mysteries, Bellatrix tuned out his nervous attempts at small-talk as she seethed silently.

 _It just HAD to be that sniveling, two-faced, greasy tapeworm Malfoy, didn't it?_ she thought. _It's not like I suffered in Azkaban for fourteen bloody years, not like I handed the Dark Lord this plan on a silver platter, not like I'm ten times the witch as that entitled little wanker…_

They passed rooms upon rooms of useless junk - a tank of swimming brains, rows of file cabinets, a trillion clocks - and she let Rodolphus handle the security charms, wondering all the while how it had ever gotten to this point. There was a time when she was the apple of her master's eye, his favorite, his chosen right-hand, only to now find herself playing second fiddle to some talentless power-jockey. Her only duties of late had been chatting up guests - a.k.a. torturing prisoners - but even that she was forced to endure under the supervision of a monitor, who no doubt reported every small shortcoming straight to the Dark Lord.

All that ended _tonight_ , however. _Tonight_ she would prove herself.

But apparently not before standing around the Hall of Prophecies for three hours in the near-darkness, waiting for Potter to show up. Surely there was nothing worse that being surrounded with fidgeters and mouth-breathers on a stake-out, Bellatrix thought, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably to fight the numbness creeping up her legs.

"Brilliant plan, Malfoy," she hissed petulantly from behind her mask, glaring at the back of his hood and forgetting for a moment that it was, in fact, her plan.

"Will you please shut _up_ ," came the frustrated response, and he may have said more were it not for the distinct sound of a door creaking open somewhere in the distance.

The sound of approaching feet followed - not two, but many. Rodolphus shot her a look of confusion and she shrugged. Had the little brat brought reinforcements?

"This is it!" a boy exclaimed.

"You said row ninety - seven?" a girl responded, the voice eerily familiar, though Bellatrix couldn't place it. "We need to go right, I think. Yes … that's fifty-four…"

The Death Eaters lingered in the darkness as a group of children entered the aisle, and she sensed more than heard the others exhale in relief; they had all been expecting the Order to make an appearance. The children, for their part, already looked terrified, even without having yet realized they were outnumbered two-to-one. There was an odd feeling in her gut, something like the embarrassment of having come to a party exceedingly overdressed.

"Have you seen this, Harry?" the red-headed oaf asked the little bespectacled one, who she now knew was the famed Boy Who Lived, bane of her Master's existence. "It's got your name on it…"

 _Pick it up, pick it up_ she chanted in her head, impatiently watching the boy inspect his Prophecy on the dusty shelf. All he had to do was pick the damned thing up, and they could all call it an early night. It was now obvious to Bellatrix that this mission would require no heroics, present no glory, and she no longer envied Malfoy's position.

Finally the boy took it in his hands, and " _Accio Prophecy_ " was already on the tip of her tongue when Lucius pushed roughly in front and into the lighted clearing. Of course - the simplest solution did not provide enough opportunity for him to preen and gloat. Oh no, there just _had_ to be a dramatic monologue involved, and _lots_ of menacing blond hair-flipping.

"Very good, Potter. Now, turn around - nice and slowly - and give that to me," he commanded, making the children jump in surprise.

"Where's Sirius?" the boy said stupidly, looking about as though expecting to see her blood-traitor cousin gagged and bound in some dark corner. Now that she'd had a good look at him, Bellatrix realized how much he truly resembled his father; James Potter had been a more than competent duelist, and she wondered whether the son had inherited his talent. The couple of gingers beside him in second-hand robes were surely yet more Weasley spawn, while the little blond girl and taller boy both looked vaguely familiar. Finally, her eyes settled on the last member of this pitiful cavalry, and she barely managed to contain her gasp.

It was _her_.

The girl from her fever dream. The one who healed her wounds, chased away the Dementors, gave back her hope. The one at whose feet she'd knelt, _begging_ for death.

Bellatrix could hardly breathe for the rage and humiliation and yearning rising like bile in her throat. And the girl had the fucking _nerve_ to just stand there, looking like some perverse paragon of innocence, like some virtuous little martyr - trembling, terrified, but oh-so brave.

"Give me the Prophecy, Potter," Malfoy insisted, as Bellatrix removed her mask and came into the light, trying to force some response from the girl. The children gaped at her with revulsion - and she knew she wasn't exactly a pretty sight these days - but the girl showed no glimmer of recognition, no hint that she felt any of the emotions that were ravaging Bellatrix.

"You need more persuasion?" she demanded, ostensibly addressing Potter. But her eyes were glued on the girl: _acknowledge me, damn you_ , they screamed. But the little wretch refused to so much as _look_ at her.

"Very well," she went on furiously, "Take the smallest one. Let him watch while we torture the little girl. I'll do it."

And _that_ certainly got her attention. Those brown eyes grew wide, as though unable to believe the depth of this cruelty, but strangely, this response didn't satisfy Bellatrix either. She was champing at the bit to get her hands on that delicate little throat- choke a confession out it - but the children circled the redhead instead, no doubt believing her the target.

"How come Voldemort wants this?" Potter said, drawing a round of gasps from the assembled Death Eaters. Bellatrix, for her part, could not believe his gall; could he not feel her Master's presence lingering in the air all around them?

"You _dare_ speak his name with your unworthy lips?" she roared, all her anger now focused on the boy. "You _dare_ besmirch it with your half bloods tongue, you _dare_ -"

"Did you know he's a half blood too?" Potter interrupted maliciously. "Voldemort? Yeah, his mother was a witch but his dad was a muggle - or has he been telling you lot he's pureblood?"

For a second, all Bellatrix could do was stare in shock, and then, _he lies...the boy lies…_ reverberated through her aching skull - her Master's voice. She raised her wand.

"STUPEF-"

"NO!" Malfoy deflected her spell, and it hit the shelf, knocking over two glass orbs. "Do not attack! We need the prophecy!"

She seethed as her imbecile brother-in-law carried on with the boy as though they had all the time in the world for explanations. If anyone had asked her (and they really ought to have done) she would have said that Potter was stalling for time with his questions, planning something.

And she was proven right mere moments later when the children turned as one and blasted the shelves off their hinges, calling up a storm of apparitions. It was utter chaos, and in that chaos Potter disappeared with the prophecy - and worse, with the girl.

The Department of Mysteries was a veritable maze of rooms, which they were forced to split up to search, her and Rodolphus drawing pairs once again. It wasn't the worst; in fact, he and his brother were the only ones of the lot she could still tolerate, now that poor Barty had gone the way of all flesh. She'd heard that he slit his wrists up at St Mungo's after only two months of "protective" custody - and Merlin knew, she certainly remembered what _that_ was like.

They rounded the corner, coming to another fork of hallways, each lined with a dozen doors, at least. Bellatrix groaned. "You know, I really _hate_ this place."

Rodolphus grunted his agreement. "Let's split up, it'll go faster."

She was about to refuse, unwilling to face the boredom of wandering around here by herself, when a glimmer in the air caught her eye, followed a second later by the sudden appearance of a familiar figure.

"Uh huh," she muttered distractedly to her husband, feet already bearing her onward, as though of their own volition.

There she was.

The girl had somehow managed to reappear on the opposite side of the building, and stood there seemingly alone and clearly oblivious to her observer. Bellatrix crept forward, unsure what she intended to do, not knowing why she would bother when all they needed was Potter and the Prophecy.

The girl was staring at something out of sight. "Agatha?" she called, surprised. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask _you_ the same thing," came the gruff response, the voice tickling at some long-forgotten memory in the Death Eater's brain. Agatha, _Agatha_ \- did she know that name?

"The consolidation point from my calculations," the girl said, "It's tonight."

"So the other one is _here_? Right _now_?"

 _Consolidation point? The other one?_ Bellatrix had no idea what that meant, but it strengthened her determination to get answers.

"Yes, I've been trying to avoid her…" the girl explained, and then, in a voice made deliberately casual, "Agatha, who is _that_?"

"Oh _this_? This is my dear old friend Augustus, who I was _quite_ surprised to run into tonight."

With a lurching feeling in her stomach at the woman's tone, Bellatrix edged forward to carefully peer around the corner. The girl's back was turned as she stared at the witch called Agatha, who held a seemingly defeated Rockwood at wand-point. The memory which had been floating just out-of-reach became clearer, and Bellatrix knew - knew without a shadow of a doubt - that Rockwood would die tonight.

"And, as it happens," the ancient witch went on icily, "We're long overdue for a chat."

"I ...I don't understand," the girl stuttered, looking between the old woman and the cowering wizard in trepidation.

"Yes," Agatha tutted, "That always surprised me about you. So very clever, and yet _so_ blind to what's right under your nose…"

A moment passed as Bellatrix imagined the gears turning in that curly head, and then the girl drew a sharp breath of realization. "It was _you_!" she accused, and if the Death Eater could see her face, she was sure it would read blame and disbelief. "You took my time turner! You _stole_ it from the hospital!"

The grey-haired witch fingered a peculiar golden chain which hung around her neck and grinned, though the expression was more ominous than anything. "You didn't need it anymore, my girl - I made sure of that. _I'm_ the one who needs it now. It's my turn to make a few little alterations."

"How could - I - You -" the girl stammered in incoherent fury, but, getting ahold of herself, continued with an air of forced calmness: "So, how long have you been planning this?" Her voice cracked at the last moment, betraying so much hurt that it was hard not to feel a twinge of pity.

Agatha sighed, as though embarrassed by this emotional display. "From the very beginning," she admitted, in a tone that demanded why anyone would ever expect any different. "From the moment you begged for my help at the One-Eyed Harpy."

 _Ah, those good old Slytherin ethics_ , Bellatrix thought with a certain bittersweet fondness. The only thing worse was a pious Gryffindor - ruthless to the end, every one.

"I gave you Judith's journal," the elderly witch went on, "Against my better judgement, just to see what you could do, to see if you could recreate her work. And, I must say - I was not disappointed."

"But I just can't believe that," the girl insisted. "If you were using me the whole time, why would you help me? Find me a place to stay? Call St Mungos? _Save my life_?"

For a long moment, Agatha gazed at the girl, her cool mask gradually giving way to something like sadness. It was as though she was used to being won over, as though the girl was not entirely wrong. "You remind me so much of my sister, Hermione," she admitted, with a rueful shake of the head. "So very much. She had it bad too, you know - worse than you, I think. But she let the obsession swallow her up before her work was done."

"Before her work was done…" the girl muttered, as though on the cusp of some terrible revelation. And, indeed, a moment later the echo of her gasp reverberated through the chamber.

"Judith is your sister," she whispered.

"Well, she _was_ ," Agatha said, fury contorting her features as she noticed Rockwood trying desperately to wriggle free, like he realized that his time was drawing nearer every second. Her silent spell found him an easy target, and he lay still once again. "But that was before she lost her damn mind trying to bring back mother."

Bellatrix nearly gave herself away with an involuntary shudder as Agatha's words brought back a stream of memories.

 _Not this again_ , she thought. If she never had to deal with Judith bloody Mintumble again in this life, it would be too bloody soon. That woman had been a _complete_ psychopath. It was the way she looked at you, like she was perpetually evaluating your potential as a lab rat, like she would gladly slit your throat just to measure the trajectory of the blood...it used to make her skin crawl. The day Judith went to prison was a very good day; she vaguely remembered getting so drunk that night that the Leaky Cauldron was forced to issue a lifetime ban. Irony of ironies was that just a few years later, Bellatrix would occupy a cell right next door to the woman she'd put away.

Was _this_ the sort of madness the girl was involved in? Bellatrix didn't want anything to do with it - and there were truly urgent matters at hand - but she just _had_ to know why the girl had to come to her.

"I helped you because I wanted to see the endgame play out," Agatha said. "I needed to know what really happens after you change the past."

"That's why you sent me to see her!" the girl exclaimed in horrified realization. "And that day in St Mungos - "

" _That_ was just a little Legilmency," Agatha cut in. "I had to see what you saw, to see if there was any hope for her at all. Though I dare say, you were woefully unprepared for it, my girl. You were practically a zombie afterwards."

Bellatrix couldn't see the girl's face, but she suspected that she had become an unintentional witness to some grand moment of disillusionment. When the girl spoke again, her voice was strangely empty. "You said I didn't need the time-turner anymore, that you made sure of it. What did you mean?"

"That muggle had to die, Hermione," Agatha said softly, eyes almost pleading. "Even you yourself realized it."

The girl gasped. "How _could_ you? Do you even _realize_ the trouble I'm in because - " she began to rage, but stopped short with a shaking breath.

"Well, now you've seen the endgame," she declared after a lengthy silence, voice once more devoid of feeling. "The endgame is a paradox. And we're stuck in it."

Agatha seemed almost hurt by this indifferent treatment. "What about the consolidation point?" she asked.

"That has a snowball's chance in hell, as you well know."

The elderly witch gave a minute shrug, levitating the unconscious Rockwood into her grasp. "Well, it's a chance I'll have to take."

The girl gave an anguished cry. "Oh Agatha, _no_! The timeline is too fragile tonight -"

"You must understand," the elder witch interrupted, fiddling with the golden chain around her neck. "I never thought I'd get my hands of this little cretin, and now that I have, I can't waste the opportunity. He's going to pay for what his father did - he's going to help me end this, once and for all. For Judith. For _mother_."

It all happened at once: the girl suddenly had her wand in hand, a spell already on her lips, as Agatha, clutching the limp Death Eater, set the golden chain to spinning - and the two were just about to shimmer from existence when a deafening explosion sent Bellatrix rolling on the floor for cover. Every glass cabinet in the room shattered as one, and the air itself seemed to be bursting at the seams as a current of energy surged forth from the time-turner. Out the corner of her eye, Bellatrix just managed to glimpse Agatha disintegrate into a million blinding fragments.

She did not know it, but in that exact moment, Neville Longbottom misfired a stunning spell into a shelf, breaking every single remaining time-turner and triggering the cosmic fissure which claimed the ancient witch.

When the dust had settled and she was reasonably certain that the storm had passed, Bellatrix climbed slowly to her feet, her back protesting every inch. Looking about, she saw the girl still standing in the same spot, staring intently at the place where the the two Unspeakables had been not a moment ago. There was nothing there save a patch of scorched tile.

"How much did you hear?" the girl said quietly, and it took Bellatrix a moment to realize she was talking to her.

"All of it," she admitted, caught by surprise. At that, the girl turned toward her, and for the first time Bellatrix felt a jolt of recognition; this wasn't the frightened little kitten she'd seen in the Hall of Prophecies, but something altogether different. It unsettled her, almost as though there were two of them - but how could that possibly be?

The girl opened her mouth - and Bellatrix intuited that the word on the tip of her tongue was _Obliviate_ \- but she seemed to reconsider at the last moment. There was something about her, some coldness in her gaze that did in fact remind Bellatrix of the Mintumble woman. But it was gone in a flicker, replaced by a look of intense curiosity.

"So, ummm," the girl murmured instead, gesturing at the wreckage around them, "You come here often?"

An involuntary laugh tore its way from the Death Eater's throat; the absurdity of the situation, it seemed, was not lost on the girl either. They stood there - knowing full well that beyond the wall a battle was raging - neither willing to break the tenuous thread that had formed all those months ago in an Azkaban cell. There were so many questions that Bellatrix wanted to ask, but all she said was, "Do you?"

"Yes," the girl said, a sardonic grin tugging at the corner of her lips. "Unfortunately."

Wands in hand, they examined each other closely, though neither moved to attack. For her part, Bellatrix wondered if this girl, like Judith, was a few sandwiches short of a picnic; for not even the Dark Lord dared to meddle with time, the consequences of which, even she knew, could be cataclysmic. All the while, the girl's gaze scorched her skin in its obsessive scrutiny, and for the first time in many years, Bellatrix was acutely aware of the devastation the years had wrought upon her once-immaculate features. Still (and quite inexplicably, Bellatrix though) the girl stared as though she wanted nothing more than to rip the cloak from her body, the skin from her ribcage, the flesh from her very bones.

But this strange paralysis was broken a moment later when a crash at the door drew their attention. It was Rodolphus, looking back and forth between her and the girl in bewilderment.

"Bella, what - " he begun, but the rest was cut short when a stunner from the girl hit him square in the chest, and he pitched forward, unconscious.

Snapping back to reality as her husband hit the floor, Bellatrix went on the offensive. She sent hex after hex at the girl, intending to subdue rather than wound, but to her surprise all her efforts were parried. The girl circled the room, appropriating furniture to deflect the attacks, scouting out the weakness in her opponent's defense, alternating Protego and Stupefy.

If was the classical Department dueling style, the very same she had been trained in all those years ago. Bellatrix could recognize it anywhere. It was, in part, what made her so successful in battling Aurors; she knew all their tricks better than they did. And, certainly, she could have pushed harder, overwhelmed the girl's formulaic stance with some creative spell-work, but when she had her wandless at her mercy, Bellatrix would have to make a choice: to question, to kill, to set free? And that was a crossroads she just couldn't face at present, because there was a part of her that couldn't bear to hear what the girl would say, or see what she herself would do.

And, more that even that, it was the way the girl kept glancing furiously at Rodolphus, as though his mere existence was a grave offense. And she seemed to grow angrier by the second, that carefully-controlled aura of hers morphing gradually into something wild and reckless.

" _Locomotor Mortis_!" Bellatrix cried, the spell making an arc across the room towards the girl.

As her opponent prepared a counter-offense, Bellatrix noticed a strange flicker around the edges of her body. It was so subtle that for a moment she thought she'd imagined it all - but no! The girl seemed to be growing fainter and fainter, her limbs almost translucent in the candlelight.

But the momentary distraction cost her; the girl deflected her spell, and it rebounded upon the unprepared Bellatrix, locking her legs together and sending her reeling into the wall. She gave a faint cry as her skull bounced against the stonework.

"Alright?" the girl panted, rushing over to her fallen adversary.

It was as though their battle had been nothing but a bout of friendly sparring - and Bellatrix wondered why their interactions seemed always destined to devolve into absurdity. The girl had about her a quality of being entirely divorced from context - somehow out-of-place in the real world - and she dragged Bellatrix into that strange dimension.

"Are _you_ alright?" she countered, noticing that the girl's face had also grown translucent.

The girl looked down at herself, then up at Bellatrix in bewilderment. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you look like you're…" Bellatrix began, as the girl turned ever more ghostly, and began to flicker.

"...disappearing," she finished, and as she said it, the girl shimmered for the last time, and was gone.


	23. The Department of Mysteries Pt 2

Thanks to all who reviewed! I was really losing my motivation with this story and reading your comments helped me get back on track.

This chapter wraps up what I think of as the "groundwork" for this fic, and the remainder will focus more on the interactions between our heroines. Don't worry, all questions will be answered in time!

* * *

Bellatrix Lestrange had devoted an awful lot of time in her life to pondering the question of whether one would realize it if they were going mad. All the lunatics she'd ever met seemed blissfully unaware of the fact, and yet there were many times when she was certain she was losing grips on her sanity. And one of those times was now.

Had she really just witnessed three people vanish into thin air? Was Rockwood really gone for good? Could it be that the girl was just a figment of her imagination, as Bellatrix had always believed her to be? Her mind refused to leave these questions, even as she woke Rodolphus and dragged him back to find the others.

Hearing shouting up ahead, they met up with Lucius and the lot, who seemed to have the Potter boy cornered in a sort of shadowy amphitheater. Looking around at her compatriots, Bellatrix was amused to see that many were bruised and bleeding; apparently the children were not as helpless as first appearances would suggest.

"Give me the Prophecy!" Malfoy commanded Potter, for perhaps the tenth time that night.

The boy scrambled backwards onto the dais, where an empty stone archway towered over them all like the wreckage of some fabled gothic monument. But it was not _quite_ empty, for somewhere inside Bellatrix could just make out the murmur of indistinct voices.

"Let the others go, and I'll give it to you!" the boy declared, scanning the hateful faces before him and trying unsuccessfully to mask his fear.

A round of laughter greeted this pronouncement. "You are not in a position to bargain, Potter," Malfoy sneered. "You see," he waved airily at his fellow Death-Eaters, "There are ten of us, and only one of you!"

Though her brother-in-law was practically glowing in triumph, his words had rather the opposite effect on Bellatrix. Here they all stood in full battle regalia, the old guard and new recruits alike, come to face down a few teenage wizards - and for what? A little glass bauble? Wasn't it all a bit... _overdone_?

But before she could fully consider the thought, something drew her attention.

"He's dot alone!" a cry from the corner rang out, as a lumbering boy with a bloody nose climbed down the steps to meet them. "He's still god be!"

"Stubefy!" the boy cast uselessly, pointing to each of them in turn. "STUBEFY! STUBEFY!"

"It's Longbottom isn't it?" Malfoy casually interrupted. "Well your grandmother is used to losing family members to our cause... Your death will not come as a great shock…"

There was a tremor in the ranks as Malfoy spoke, of recognition perhaps, but also of discomfort. Rodolphus, she well knew, drew the line at killing children, and he was not the only one; it was undeniable that many cast to stun tonight, and not to kill. But there were those like Dolohov who took great pleasure in it, and others like Lucius who lived to issue empty threats.

 _And then there's me_ , she thought with a smirk. "Longbottom?"

The boy turned toward her, his eyes growing wide in absolute terror. He'd looked familiar before, but only now did she notice the extent of the resemblance: he had that same daft, gullible expression Frank always used to wear - and none of Alice's good sense.

"Why, I have had the _pleasure_ of meeting your parents, boy," she hissed at him, surprised by the intensity of her own loathing. Bellatrix had never laid a finger on him as a baby, but now, when he looked so much like his idiot father, she was just _itching_ to rip his stupid face off. She never wanted to have to look at it again.

"I DOE YOU HAB!" the boy shrieked, practically spitting at her as he fought against Avery's strong grasp.

"Someone stun him!" Avery grunted, struggling to restrain the boy.

"No, no, no…" she countered, "No, let's see how long Longbottom can last before he cracks like his parents...unless Potter wants to give us the prophecy…"

The boy struggled harder, if that was possible. "Don'd gib id do dem, Harry!"

Fury pumping like fire in her veins, Bellatrix raised her wand - just as Rodolphus gave a quiet sigh - and cast: " _Crucio_."

His scream was high, long, _agonizing_ \- and it brought a shiver of joy to Bellatrix, who ended the curse in just moments, panting hard. Merlin, she hadn't actually _enjoyed_ it in so, so long…Not since…since...

Well, _that_ didn't bear thinking about. Deliberately crushing the memory, Bellatrix took a steadying breath. "That was just a taster," she warned the boy. "Now Potter, either give us the prophecy, or watch your little friend die the hard way."

And, looking helplessly between her and Longbottom, Potter was just about to hand it over when the door burst open.

It was the Order of the Phoenix, arriving for a somewhat-belated rescue mission. Before Bellatrix could fully understand what was going on, some strange girl had leapt to the fore, clearly intending to duel her. And she was really quite good for her age, Bellatrix thought, deflecting a stream of hexes and following up with some underhand shots that forced the girl to duck out of the way. But it seemed to be a raging hatred, more than anything else, that was driving her onward.

"Have we met?" Bellatrix called to her, struggling to be heard over the din of the surrounding battle.

"Oh yeah," the girl snarled back. "You tried to kill me when I was a kid. Or don't you remember, _Aunt Bella_?"

Shocked, the Death Eater paused, mid-spell, and squinted hard. It was true; once you got past the bright pink hair and garish clothes, the face was quite the same as it had been when she was eight years old. It was Andy's face. It surprised Bellatrix - for nowadays her mind was like a dark abyss - but she remembered the last time she saw her niece exceptionally well. Her sister threw the girl a birthday party in that shack her Muggle husband called a house, and she'd demanded a purple Hippogriff, a talking Kneazle, a pet giant, and a hundred other ridiculous things.

"N-Nymphadora?"

A spasm of anger passed over the girl's now-familiar features. "Don't you call me that, you heartless bitch!"

The words brought an indescribable pang of emotion, and to conceal it, Bellatrix fired a string of curses. "Your fool of a mother never had any respect either!" she sneered.

 _And you used to love that about her_ , a little voice reminded mournfully, _Didn't you?_

"How dare you talk about Mum! You know she hates you!" her niece burst out, more cold and vicious that Bellatrix could ever have imagined, knowing the sweet girl she'd been. "And now I see why!"

"Don't speak of things you don't understand," Bellatrix snarled, unwilling to hear more. She'd been indulgent at first, but now she went on the offensive, quickly overcoming the girl's predictable method and sending her flying down the steps, where she landed in an unmoving heap. And Bellatrix may have considered going down there to check her pulse, but a wizard in a ratty overcoat descended on the body almost instantly, trying to revive the girl.

"Can't say that freedom suits you, cousin," a voice called her attention, and turning, she saw that it was Sirius, prepared in dueling-stance. "But I suppose that nothing really suits you, does it?"

"Tell your werewolf to get his filthy paws off my niece!" she growled in response, deflecting his spell with a flick of the wrist.

Sirius just smirked, sending a blasting curse her way. "As a matter of fact, she likes his 'filthy paws'. It's better than laying down with a reanimated corpse, at any rate -"

"Master is _not_ a reanimated corpse!" she cut in furiously, but he ignored her.

"They say he smells like rancid meat - is that true, Bella?" he taunted. "I bet that _really_ gets you going."

"You're disgusting!" she cried, sending forth a stunning spell that missed him by inches.

"Losing our touch, are we?" Sirius laughed loud - transported, exhilarated, almost joyful in the heat of battle - reminding her forcefully of the boy he'd been before prison claimed them both. She'd never seen him all those years in Azkaban, though the rumor-mill was forever awhirl with stories of his foiled escape attempts. Until the very last, successful bid.

"I taught you everything you know, you wretched little mutt!" Bellatrix snarled, though secretly she winced to hear that even her wastrel of a cousin had picked up on her impairment in a matter of minutes.

Sirius made a show of his casual shrug. "Age gets the better of everyone, I suppose."

A come-back was already on the tip of her tongue, but Bellatrix stopped short as she caught sight of a familiar glimmer across the room. It seemed to glide almost casually across the battlefield, miraculously untouched by streaming spells, unseen by all but her - and, she noticed with apprehension, by Dolohov. He'd seen it too, probably guessing it was another Order member under disillusionment, and raised his wand to bring it down.

Before she even registered what she was doing, a stunning spell burst from her wand and flew across the room, zeroing in on her long-time comrade. It hit the distracted Death-Eater in the back, and he slumped down where he stood.

But Bellatrix couldn't waste time searching for the girl, if indeed it hadn't all been just a trick of the light. Her own duel was not yet over, and it was only her lightning-quick reflexes that saved her from her cousin's hex, which she deflected with a rather shoddy shield charm. It rebounded upon the caster, hitting him square in the chest, and he fell - time seemed to stand still as he moved slowly through the air - back into the veiled arc.

A piercing scream rang in her ears. "NO! SIRIUS! SIRIUS!" someone was shouting, sobbing, pleading...but Bellatrix was too disoriented to see who it could be. All she could think was, _I'm going to get killed for this._

Luck, it seemed, was not her friend tonight. A shining rope whipped out towards her, wrapped around her middle, and tried to pull her to the floor - where all her colleagues, she now saw, were already captured and chained. Presiding over it all was the newly-arrived Albus Dumbledore, incandescent with rage.

Bellatrix was many things, but not a fool: she knew when she was overcome. Deciding a strategic retreat was in order, she struggled to sever his spell, and when it finally broke, she turned and ran. Dashing blindly through the corridors, her own breathing harsh in her ears, it took Bellatrix a while to realize that there was someone in pursuit.

The footsteps chased her out of the Department of Mysteries, up the stairs, and into the Atrium. Catching a glimpse of a shaggy black head hiding behind the fountain, she was happy to realize that it was none more threatening than Potter. Part of her had always been convinced that in the end, it would be Dumbledore, or even Moody, who would come to collect their pound of flesh. But the boy was just a sentimental little idiot, crying for his godfather as if dying in battle was not the best possible outcome any of them could hope for. She was ready for it every day, and no doubt her cousin had been ready too.

 _Walburga must be rolling in her grave,_ she though, not altogether without regret; the fall of the last male of the Most Moble House was truly the end of an era. At least she'd made him a hero and a martyr - a legacy worthy of a Black.

Potter tried his best to get the upper hand, but he was hardly the prodigy he'd been made out to be by the others. It was difficult to see how he'd managed to escape the Dark Lord, not once, but twice - and more difficult still to comprehend her Lord's persistent fascination.

" _You question me, Bellatrix_?" that sibilant voice echoed in her mind as though he'd heard her very thoughts, and she gasped in horror, immediately sinking to her knees.

"No my Lord! Never!" Bellatrix nearly sobbed, feeling his furious presence descend upon her like black-winged death upon the starving, and it was almost a relief to think that he would take away the bitter taste of failure, ease the agony of his disappointment, grant her his last and sweetest gift - oblivion.

 _But, not tonight_ , his mirthless chuckle seemed to say.

"No, not tonight, my dear," he whispered to her, dragging her up by the hair and pushing her aside as he turned to deal with Potter.

* * *

As a testament to how truly dire the circumstances were, Narcissa broke all precedent by waiting up for her return. She rushed into the drawing room mere moments after the Dark Lord rematerialized with Bellatrix, robe askew over a silken night-dress, worry carving furrows in a countenance so often polished smooth. Wormtail, too, crept in behind her, sending the Lady Malfoy a single, daring, lecherous glance - before he turned upon the new arrivals.

"Oh, My Lord!" he simpered, keeping his eyes glued firmly at his Master's feet, "Our plans were successful, I hope?"

It was, quite possibly, the worst thing he could have said. Rage - pure, electrifying, white hot rage - so thinly veiled in other moments, burst from the Dark Lord's fingertips, sweeping the room in blinding waves and leaving wreckage in its wake. Bellatrix watched in wonder as the windows, the furniture, the tapestries, even the floor they stood on turned to dust before her eyes.

" _Hope_ is for sentimental fools," the Dark Lord spoke softly after the storm had passed, his measured tones more terrifying than the primal scream of fury they replaced. "What I demand is _loyalty_. Loyalty, and _competence_." His withering glare settled on Bellatrix, who looked away, and then on Wormtail, who couldn't suppress a squeal of terror. "Is that too much to ask?"

Finally, he turned upon his last attendant, who was a statue in the darkened corner - still, silent, and heretofore perpetually ornamental. "Is it, Narcissa?"

Bellatrix could see the helpless quiver, could see her sister fight to keep her poise as he addressed her directly for the very first time. "No, My Lord," she whispered, wisely keeping her head bowed low.

"Then you will understand why your husband has forfeit my protection tonight. Along with Bella's better half, and the rest of the useless rabble I call my Inner Circle." His meandering footsteps seemed aimless as he spoke, but experience had taught Bellatrix that he was never aimless; the Dark Lord made the world his chess board, and now he was evaluating a potential pawn. And the pawn - poor, sheltered, innocent Narcissa - did not even know it.

 _Say nothing!_ Bellatrix warned her with a burning look. _Don't move, don't breathe, don't even THINK._

"What will…" Narcissa began tentatively, meeting Bella's gaze but choosing to ignore its unspoken command. "What will happen to Lucius?"

"Azkaban, I suspect," the Dark Lord sighed, offering condolences with a skeletal touch upon Narcissa's shoulder, as though the matter were entirely out of his hands. "But given the changing loyalties of our new friends, I think he'll have a decent time of it."

With a pang of sympathy, Bellatrix realized that Rodolphus was probably back in his old cell by now, right next door to his brother. Should she have returned to save them at the Ministry? It was futile to challenge Dumbledore, she knew - and yet, for her, he would have tried.

"Our...new friends?" Narcissa repeated fearfully, her wide eyes darting to and fro in the darkness.

He didn't speak, but merely motioned to the windows, now gutted by his burst of magic to reveal the grounds beyond. All looked as one, but Bellatrix felt it long before the others: that almost-imperceptible chill that crept along her skin and settled in the marrow of her bones, that bottomless abyss of misery she'd never quite climbed out of. For fourteen years they shadowed every step, so closely that their presence was imprinted in her mind; and now she conjured phantoms to torment herself, she heard their silent whispers everywhere, and felt their ghost-like fingers grasping for her last remaining joys.

But these were not the figments of her tattered mind. They were real - dozens, maybe hundreds, of Dementors swarming down upon the Manor, blocking out the moonlight. Wormtail drew back against the wall in terror and tried to hide behind Narcissa, who herself looked on the verge of fainting.

"I have been very grateful for your hospitality, Lady Malfoy," the Dark Lord said, "I hope you can accommodate my guests as well?"

It was a rhetorical question, and everyone knew it. Still, Narcissa stared at her as though she expected her to do something - but what could she possibly do?

Bellatrix struggled to bite back a sigh. It wasn't enough that these creatures had made her mind a living hell. No - they had to follow her home from Azkaban. They had devoured the meal, and now they wanted to lick the bowl completely clean.

 _I just can't catch a break, can I?_ she thought, fighting a sudden desperate desire to laugh. Only, she feared that if she started, she'd never be able to stop.

"The grounds should suit them fine for now," the Dark Lord went on lightly, before he turned his gaze upon his first lieutenant. "I won't punish you tonight, Bellatrix," he announced, falling back into his favored role of the benevolent patriarch. "Instead, I'd like to take this opportunity to remind you of the fate you would have suffered, had I not risked so much to win your freedom."

As though they had been waiting for his cue, the Dementors flocked in through the windows, tearing at each other in their haste to reach the promised meal. Bellatrix would have endured anything - gladly given her right hand like Wormtail - rather than face their ravenous maws again, but there was no choice. It was useless to beg for mercy.

"Forgive me, My Lord," she whispered in resignation, coming forth to face her fate, even as every cell of her being protested it.

Voldemort looked almost regretful, like a parent pitying an unruly child he had to discipline. "I hope you learn this lesson, Bellatrix...and learn it well."

And with a wave of his hand they were on her, almost suffocating her in their eagerness, clouding her vision with swirling shadows as she plunged into the depths of her most painful memories. The visions rushed past her eyes, frantic and dizzying, as too many creatures tried to suck them out at once.

It was interminable, excruciating, vile...

Eventually she must have passed out, for the next thing she remembered was waking in her room. Someone - her sister, she assumed - must have carried her upstairs and placed her in her favorite armchair by the fireplace. The house was dark and silent; the Dark Lord must have gone.

"Narcissa," she croaked out, her voice hoarse from screaming. Though it was hardly more than a whisper, the sound seemed to echo through her chambers, and a moment later Narcissa rushed in with a small bundle. Usually the picture of composure and efficiency, tonight the Lady of the Manor was an utter wreck; her hair had fallen piecemeal from her neat chignon and there were streaks across her face where tears had dried.

"I brought some chocolate - I didn't know what else to do - You just fainted - " she stammered, urgently pressing a candy bar into Bellatrix's hands. Though Narcissa had already faced the aftermath of Bellatrix's imprisonment - even helped her through those first agonizing weeks after Azkaban - that night's events had tested even her formidable self-control.

Bellatrix snatched the chocolate eagerly, fingers clumsy in their haste to peel back the wrapper. "Thanks," she mumbled around a mouthful, gobbling up the candy like a five-year old on Christmas morning, probably looking ridiculous but not caring in the slightest.

Narcissa worried her lip as she watched her, a pained look in her eyes. "Bella, I...I had no idea what those monsters were like! Having to live with them for more than a decade... it's beyond words! If I'd known… if I'd suspected- "

"There's nothing you could have done," Bellatrix cut in, her tone strained. She licked the candy wrapper clean, and then her fingers, trying to look anywhere but her sister's pitying eyes.

Narcissa grabbed for her wrist, desperate to make her point. "But what happened tonight...it's not right! You could have died!"

Snatching her hand away, Bellatrix growled. "Don't _ever_ criticize the Dark Lord in front of me, Cissy."

"But, it's not _right_ ," Narcissa insisted.

"Right? _Right?_ " she barked, the sound inescapably giving way to frenzied laughter. "I don't even know what the hell that means anymore."

The fire crackled loudly, and she stared into its blazing depths, turning the night's events over in her mind and wondering what, if anything, to tell Narcissa. Should she admit that it was ultimately her plan that put Lucius in prison? Could she explain the girl and all she'd seen without sounding like an utter lunatic? Did she dare to mention Andy's daughter? Or Sirius?

Finally, her brain settled on the most inconsequential of memories, and she spoke without thinking. "Potter says the Dark Lord is a half-blood."

Narcissa's eyes went wide with surprise, then narrowed in contemplation. "But that's...not possible," she said carefully, watching Bellatrix with the look one reserves for a once beloved, but now completely rabid animal. "Surely we would know it."

Narcissa's reaction was hardly reassuring - and why did she need reassurance at all? - so Bellatrix turned to studying the scorch marks on her robes, trying to put the subject out of mind.

"What happens now?" Narcissa asked, and seeing her sister's blank look, elaborated wearily: "My husband is gone for Merlin know she how long, and suddenly the Dark Lord is showing interest in _me_. I want to know what I'm supposed to do...and more importantly, I want to know how long I'm expected to play hostess to an army of soul-sucking demons."

Tonight, it seemed, even Lady Malfoy had no time for her usual delicacies and euphemisms.

"Well, the original covenant of the Knights of Walpurgis affords the the leader only one child from each family," Bellatrix explained. " I represent our House, and Lucius represents the Malfoy line. Now that he's gone...well, the Dark Lord may ask for your service as replacement." _He may even ask for Draco_ , she thought, but didn't say.

At these words, Narcissa flinched back as though she had been struck. "But Bella…" she whispered, a tremor of desperation in her voice, "What am I supposed to do?"

Narcissa's hand was on her arm, gripping hard, demanding guidance, demanding an answer to her real question: _What are **you** going to do? What are you going to do to help **me**?_

But Bellatrix was no one's savior. It was infuriating to be asked when she was barely scraping by herself, when she was powerless to stop the Dark Lord branding, using, killing _anyone_ , let alone Cissy. Let alone _herself_. Jumping from her chair, Bellatrix paced to the fireplace, unnecessary stoking it with her wand as she tried to stifle her irritation.

"You will do whatever he asks," she declared at last. "Or you will die."

The silence that followed this pronouncement was distinctly cold - accusing, even. When she spoke again, Narcissa had at least some of her masks back firmly in place.

"You need to rest," she said. It was the subtlest of insults, reasserting her role as her elder sister's caretaker.

Bellatrix merely snorted, still stubbornly facing the fireplace. "What I need is a drink. Be a dear and fetch the firewhiskey, would you?"

"No, Bella," came the unsurprising response. "You do what you have to do, but don't make me watch you destroy yourself."

Narcissa walked to the door, but turned back at the last moment to deliver her parting shot - one calculated to get under her skin and linger there for days like an eager parasite. "We all had enough of that from Father, I think."

And once again, Narcissa had the last word with the _bang_ of the slamming door, leaving Bellatrix to stare blankly into the dying flames for hours after she'd gone. Eventually, need overcame vanity, and she reached into her pocket for her wand, intending to summon herself a more-than-generous nightcap. But first, her fingers found a scrap of paper, and she pulled it out wearily, wondering how it had come to be in the pockets of a robe she hadn't worn in fifteen years. There were just a handful of words on the parchment, but each was formed with a meticulous hand.

 _Heaven's Gate. 10 pm. Sunday_ , it read. It was an invitation, a command.

And just below, a name was signed: her first real introduction to a person she already knew far, far too intimately. The girl had clearly slipped this in her pocket, but Bellatrix could not imagine when she'd had the chance. Nevertheless, here was incontrovertible proof that all she'd seen that night had really happened.

Tracing a lone finger over the script, Bellatrix gave a dry chuckle, unable to suppress the barest glimmer of excitement unfurling in her chest.

"Well, Hermione Granger - you've got some bloody nerve."


	24. A Prior Engagement

Dear readers, I'm very sorry for the wait. I've been swamped with work and moving, so haven't had time to work on this story much lately. I also had to outline the plot for Yr 6, and it took me a while to get a better grasp on where it's all going.

Thank you so much for the wonderful reviews. I was especially happy to read that the way I've imagined Bellatrix seems to be going over well, since that is something I worry about.

So, here is an extra long chapter, though perhaps not the chapter people may want. Still, good things come to those who wait (Pun, umm...intended?) ;)

Warnings for - surprise, surprise - death and sex.

* * *

Though the calendar insisted that summer had long since arrived, Sunday turned out to be one more in a string of impossibly gloomy days. A grey mist had conquered countryside and town alike, settling about each house and spreading despair to all. Muggle meteorologists were completely puzzled, while many wizards nervously recalled a similar spate of miserable weather right on the cusp of the first war.

Bellatrix was one of the few who knew the true cause of all this mist. Passing her favorite window-seat on the second floor, she paused to look out at the grounds. The fog lay thick and oppressive about the manor, but in that sea of grey she could just make out the serpentine movements of shadows swimming through the air. The mating ritual of the Dementors was a haunting dance, one she'd watched with a horrified sort of fascination many times in Azkaban.

Each courtship began with two creatures twirling together gracefully, circling each other in the air, allowing their cloaks to brush. Their movements were slow at first - languid, almost sensual - as they appraised each other carefully. But they were inevitably overcome by hunger, and would begin to tear madly at each other with their skeletal fingers, slashing until there was nothing left but shreds of black smoke.

Downstairs in the atrium, she found another sort of mating ritual underway - one that was eminently more repulsive. Her very own sister, self-proclaimed paragon of nobility, was cavorting in the corner with none other than Severus Snape, greasy half-blood whipping-boy for the Light.

They were standing a wand's-breadth apart, whispering, and Snape had his hand on Narcissa's shoulder in what he no doubt thought was a gesture of reassurance. Hearing the _click-clack_ of her soles on marble, they jumped apart guiltily.

"Snape," she sneered, observing the pair in disgust as she slowly descended the stair . "Don't you have cauldrons to scrub and boots to lick somewhere?"

The Potions Master greeted her with a sardonic little bow. "And a good afternoon to you too, Bellatrix," he offered in a passable imitation of courtesy. "Feeling a bit under the weather, are we?"

Bellatrix narrowed her eyes, but managed to restrain the impulse to smooth down her robes and fix her hair. The days when she could drink all night and still look chipper in the morning were apparently long gone.

"Yes, actually," she said. "I was up all night listening to the Dementors screwing. I don't want to see it from _you two_."

"Bellatrix!" Narcissa gasped, looking thoroughly scandalized. "Don't be vulgar! And you have _entirely_ the wrong idea - "

"Oh it's quite alright, Narcissa," Snape cut in, tone dripping with condescension. "I doubt your sister is at all familiar with matters of the heart."

"More like matters of the _knob_ …" Bellatrix snorted under her breath.

"I'd best be going," Snape went on, grasping her sister by the hand and kissing it lightly. "Take care, Narcissa. I'll write as soon as I have news." He gave Bellatrix a nod goodbye, an icy smirk playing about his lips, and she returned it with a cheeky little wave.

"Give my love to Albus," she mocked, just as the green flames of the Floo consumed him.

The second he was gone, Narcissa turned upon her furiously. "What exactly is your problem?" she demanded.

" _My_ problem?" Bellatrix scoffed. "My problem is that your husband hasn't been in prison a week and you're already falling all over yourself to be Snape's next bedwarmer!"

Narcissa crossed her arms and glared. "Oh and I suppose you care about the sanctity of marriage all of a sudden? Besides, Severus is nothing more than an old, dear friend. Who, I might add, is doing more for me and Draco right now than anyone else - including my own sister!"

Bellatrix sighed, hating to be dragged once more into that pointless conversation. Narcissa had been frantic ever since the Dark Lord gave Draco his assignment, pleading with Bellatrix to 'fix it' like the whole situation was no more complicated than a broken Sneakoscope. And she'd already promised to spend all summer training the brat, and to devise his plan for him, but that was not enough for Lady Malfoy. No, Narcissa had to go running to Dumbledore's lapdog, begging him on bended knee, flattering him to the heavens, practically whoring herself out for his aid…

It was nauseating to think of the way her sister had behaved at Spinner's End. Even that wretch Eileen Prince had more dignity when she offered to trade all her earthly goods for a pittance, just to send her son off to school. And what a poor investment _that_ turned out to be. Twenty five years later, the son had purged all traces of the mother from his little house, and nothing remained of her but a cracked gravestone in an overgrown yard, bearing the inscription, ' _Here lies Mrs. Tobias Snape_ '.

"The both of you are idiots," Bellatrix said, looking at her sister with something like contempt. "Betraying the Dark Lord's confidence, conspiring behind his back… do you really think he won't find out eventually? Who do you suppose will be cleaning up _that_ mess? _Darling_ Snivellus?"

"You're not a mother, Bellatrix, so you will never understand how I feel," Narcissa declared imperiously, straightening her robes and walking to the door. "You have no one to care for but _yourself_. You certainly don't seem to care for _me_."

Again, she left before Bellatrix had the chance to respond, a passive-aggressive habit that probably dove Lucius crazy these past decades. And, like Lucius, she could have easily followed her down the hall, shouting insults, but it was hardly worth it. Poor Narcissa, it seemed, couldn't do without a wizard to hitch her wagon to - and it was only a matter of time before _this_ particular wizard pulled her off a cliff.

Besides, Bellatrix had a prior engagement. The Dark Lord had asked for a personal audience, which of itself was quite an honor, but even more sublime was his promise of a 'special task' specifically for her. She knocked twice at the door of the now-fully-restored drawing room, and entered when she heard his sibilant reply. If Bellatrix had dared to think such things, she may have noticed how absurd he looked holding court surrounded by Narcissa's frilly Victorian decor.

"My Lord," she greeted with a deep bow, briefly eyeing the two others seated by his side. They were stubby and whey-faced, and seemed vaguely familiar, but as usual she couldn't remember how she knew them.

"Ah Bellatrix!" he called, motioning her over jovially - and in that moment it was impossible to think that this was the same wizard who'd nearly killed her just days before. "I'd like to introduce you to some young friends of mine." The two gave identical nervous giggles, glancing between her and the Dark Lord. "This is Alecto and Amycus Carrow. They are _very_ eager to support our cause."

For a long moment, she could only stare at the pair with dawning horror, but the awkward silence was broken when the woman leapt up and rushed to shake her hand.

"Madame Lestrange," she twittered, with the air of a groupie meeting her idol. "I am a great admirer of your work. It's _such_ an honor!"

The woman's hand was clammy and trembling, and Bellatrix let it go immediately, as though burned. "Likewise, I'm sure," she managed to grind out, thanking the heavens that her wand was deep in her robes where it wouldn't tempt her.

The wizard named Amycus approached as well, but perhaps sensing that to attempt a handshake might be hazardous to his health, he gave her a small bow. "Father sends his regards."

A muscle in Bellatrix's jaw twitched uncontrollably. " _Does he now_?" she growled.

 _You can't curse them in front of the Dark Lord_ , she reminded herself sternly.

That thought was followed closely by, _These could have easily been **your** children_. It was a truly nightmarish realization.

A slight cough from the Dark Lord interrupted their silent stand-off. "I trained Bellatrix in the Dark Arts personally, and if I may say so, she was an exceptional pupil," he praised, distracting Bellatrix and making her flush. "I expect she will prove a…satisfactory teacher."

"What am I to teach, my Lord?" she asked, surprised. _Surely_ he couldn't mean that he intended her to tutor these two? Surely the fates were not _that_ cruel?

But his chilling laugh confirmed her worst suspicions. "Duelling, of course. Reconnaissance. Occlumency. Interrogation," he listed. "You will begin immediately. There are big things on the horizon and I need my soldiers well-prepared."

So it transpired that the remainder of her day was spent instructing the Carrows, who, between the both of them, had less magical talent than a single wart on Minerva McGonagall's nose. Theirs was a case where eagerness did not make up for stupidity, not blood-status for character. She barely managed to push them out the door at nine o'clock, amidst effusive gratitude, still undecided about Hermione Granger's invitation.

Odds were strongly in favor of it being a trap. It was madness to even consider it, she told herself again as she leafed through Narcissa's closet, looking for a proper robe. Yes, she would probably be captured the moment she set foot in that old ruin, dragged off kicking and screaming back to Azkaban...or worse, they might just send her back here to the Dementors, an angry Narcissa and those twin idiots, the Carrows. For some reason, it amused her that she honestly couldn't say which option she preferred.

Still. The girl may have danced on the finer side of sanity, but she was no master duelist; if she expected to take Bellatrix Lestrange by force, she was in for a nasty surprise. No, what compelled the Death Eater most was the sliver of a possibility that the girl had... _ulterior motives_. Granger had every chance to _Obliviate_ her, even stun her and turn her in while she was slipping that note in her pocket, but she evidently chose not to. And Bellatrix was absolutely desperate to know _why_.

 _Why_ did the girl choose to help her in Azkaban, _why_ was she mixed up with the likes of the Mintumble sisters, _why_ did she pick Heaven's Gate of all places, and _why_ had she stared like she wanted to devour her whole?

Pulling out the few pairs of black robes that Narcissa owned, Bellatrix laid them against herself and examined her reflection. Turning this way and that, she tossed away one after the other in irritation.

"Didn't I say that nothing suits you?" a snide voice remarked from a darkened corner. In a heartbeat, Bellatrix had spun around to face it, her wand aloft, a curse already on her lips.

She was just about to command the intruder to reveal himself, when a translucent form drifted from the shadows, greeting her with mock salute.

"Sirius!" she gasped in bewilderment.

"In the flesh!" The ghost's hollow chuckle froze her to the very core. He was just a pale imitation of the wizard he'd been in life, though one could easily claim that Azkaban stole his soul long before the veil claimed his body. "Or what's left of it, I suppose."

"You're - you're supposed to be _dead_ ," she stammered, fighting a losing battle to regain her composure.

Brushing invisible lint from his sleeve, Sirius floated over to the window, peering out into the fog. "Yes, imagine my disappointment when I woke up here, instead of the glorious afterlife."

"You're not real," Bellatrix insisted, backing away with wand still raised."You can't be real!" Her back hit the door and she fumbled for the handle, eyes glued fearfully on the apparition before her.

Sirius gave an all-too-familiar shrug. "Well, then you're probably just crazy," he teased. "It was just a matter of time, really."

" _Stupefy_!" she cried, sending a jet of red light right at his chest, where it shimmered for a second before passing right through.

Sirius clutched the spot where the spell had pierced him, and laughed. "You know something - that actually tickles!" He sounded sincerely delighted to be able to feel something. "Go on, give it another go!" he challenged her, drifting closer.

But this was too much for Bellatrix. She practically ripped the door off its hinges in her haste to leave, slamming it closed with a sigh, as though removing him from sight would banish the ghost back to whatever dingy corner of the Underworld he'd crawled out of.

"Not real...not real...get a grip, Bella…" she muttered to herself, walking down the hall and deliberately ignoring the sound of echoing laughter coming from her room. It was only when she stepped out of the Floo at Borgin and Burkes that she realized that she never managed to find a proper robe.

The dusty shop was not her favorite old haunt - in fact she could happily go a lifetime without seeing her erstwhile employer again - but it _was_ one of the very few secure places one could travel from Malfoy Manor. Hearing the telltale rustle behind the counter, she Apparated on the spot, eager to avoid uncomfortable hellos, and rematerialized in a familiar darkened street.

Heaven's Gate was long past its prime even during the war, and the intervening years had done it no favors. There were a few more boarded windows and a few more headless gargoyles, but other than that, it looked much the same as it had done in 1981. The blown-out streetlight gazed upon her mournfully as she approached the house, carefully probing the air for a trace of wards. Discovering none, Bellatrix tried the door, and was surprised to find it opened with a push. When the brigade of do-gooders she'd been expecting failed to materialize, she even dared to venture inside.

A part of her, the one still preoccupied with the unexpected appearance of her cousin's ghost, was certain that the house would be empty, that she'd hallucinated the entire thing - the Ministry, the girl, the letter. But as she stepped into the cobwebbed parlor, the sound of music drifted down from somewhere on the first-floor landing, and she knew that she was not alone.

The tune was melancholy, wistful - a perfect accompaniment to the pang of nostalgia that pierced her as she took in the familiar peeling wallpaper, the grimy whining floorboards, the ancient Georgian table in the hall, now piled high with paperwork, where she'd once made love...

It might have been just yesterday that she last saw these things, unchanged as though they had been conjured from her memory, but it had really been a lifetime. That bright-eyed girl she'd been was dead and gone, though her shadow remained - compelled, it seemed, to haunt the places she had loved in life.

A cat-like stealth came easily to Bellatrix as she crept along the wall in search of the girl, spotting her at last in a room that may have once been a formal parlor, but now held little more than a couple of stray chairs and a battered Steinway Grand. The girl sat at the piano, her fingers dancing gracefully across the keys, miraculously coaxing something beautiful out of that tired device. She had her hair pinned up, and just above her collar, a single curl had fallen out to brush against her nape.

Although her fingers spasmed with the urge to sweep that lonesome curl away, Bellatrix clenched her fist against the ghost sensation. Instead, she wondered at the careless cruelty of a rendezvous arranged in this particular house - was it a stroke of fate, or had the girl intentionally asked her here, guessing how it would affect her? She hardly seemed the type to take her pleasure rubbing salt into the wounds of others, but then again, they barely knew each other.

Perhaps she had it wrong from the beginning. Perhaps the girl had no agenda but the war, and she was merely here to make some tedious political offer. It was, Bellatrix thought, a far likelier scenario than being summoned by a stranger for an illicit tryst.

And was she really _that_ hard up? _That_ desperate to feel alive, if only for a single, fleeting moment? It had, she realized, been nearly fifteen years. And all that a time, whenever she recalled her lover, it was with hatred only - though there were many nights when, huddled alone on her prisoner's cot, Bellatrix could clearly feel the imprint of that familiar body burning at her side.

The memory caught her then, the memory of a thousand sensations: the breath against her neck, the moans she caught with eager lips, the fingers clawing at her back. It was too vivid, too painful; she let her head fall back against the shelf to chase these thoughts away, but the sound was louder than she could have guessed. Abruptly, the music stopped.

The sound of the bench scraping the floor as the girl rose soon followed.

"Hello?" she called, as Bellatrix hid from her behind the wall, breathing hard.

"Anyone there?" she tried again, but it was no use. Her guest was paralyzed with indecision. And Bellatrix knew the girl's next words would be ' _homenum_ _revelio_ ', and then things would be forced to a head. The feeling she'd once had when dueling the girl returned - the feeling of dawdling on the edge of an abyss.

And she was not ready to fall. Not again, perhaps not ever. In a split-second's decision, she grabbed her wand and apparated away.

* * *

Tea at the Burrow was an unusually stilted affair. A dense fog had overtaken the cheery slopes of Ottery St. Catchpole, bringing with it a sense of all-consuming dread. Voldemort's emergence into the open weighed heavily on all those assembled in the Weasleys' kitchen, though no one dared to mention it, as though admitting that the war was coming would hasten its arrival. Not even the news of Bill and Fleur's engagement could lift the mood entirely, though they had talked of little else but wedding plans for days.

"Een France eet is customary to 'ave golden doves at ze wedding," Fleur announced into the silence, drawing _humms_ of interest from the men and a particularly grim eye-roll from Ginny.

"Oh, is that so?" Mr. Weasley clucked with his typical enthusiasm. "How novel!"

Fleur nodded self-importantly, flipping back her sheet of silver hair. "Yes, zhey carry ze veil of ze bride. All the proper weddings have zhem. I will have my dress dezigned with feathers to match. I will look so beautiful, no, Bill?"

Her fiancé gave her an indulgent smile as a plate clattered in the sink, loudly announcing Mrs. Weasley's manifest irritation.

"Well _this_ , thank gods, is _England_ ," the matriarch said curtly, as if that sentiment alone explained everything. "And in England, we don't have golden doves."

Fleur gave a little disdainful sniff, glancing through the window at the walled-off garden. "Yes, you just 'ave cheekens apparently. 'Ordes and 'ordes of cheekens!"

"And now we have a cow," Ginny muttered with a sidelong glance at Hermione, who couldn't help but smile.

Mrs. Weasley, Ginny and Hermione were unanimous in their disdain for 'Phlegm', though the former two were active in their efforts to break up the engagement, while Hermione merely found herself repulsed by the couple's gratuitously saccharine displays. They were just two people in love, but the sight of them grated on Hermione's nerves for reasons she couldn't fully articulate.

"I'm sure we can come up with something mum," Bill placated, looking to his father for support.

But it was poor, infatuated Ron who came to Fleur's defense as usual. "Yeah, we could just charm some pigeons!"

Throwing her kitchen towel on the counter, Mrs. Weasley turned, hands on her hips, and glared at him. "And I suppose your father and I will be paying for that?" Her voice rose to a ringing pitch, and Hermione had the clear impression that Ron was just the first convenient target for anger that was really directed at her future daughter-in-law.

"W-well, Hermione c-can probably do it," Ron stuttered, suddenly finding his his soup extremely interesting. "Can't you 'Mione?"

"Don't drag her into this!" Ginny whispered, stressing the point with a painful jab to the ribs. Ron squealed, and gave her a reproachful look. Meanwhile, Hermione nodded distractedly to no one in particular and quickly excused herself; the list of jobs she'd been strong-armed into doing for the wedding had already grown impossibly long. So, she hid on the back-porch for hours as usual, reading and taking advantage of the Burrow's scarcest resource - privacy.

Dusk had just fallen when the screen door creaked open and Bill strolled out to join her, an old-fashioned pipe hanging limply from the corner of his mouth. He brought his finger to his lips conspiratorially, and Hermione nodded; she knew that he was hiding from Fleur, who had forbidden him to smoke.

Bill took out a pouch and filled his pipe, and Hermione watched him nervously, as though deciding whether or not she could involve him in a matter of great importance.

Finally, deciding that her need for advice was too urgent to ignore, she spoke. "Hey, Bill. Can I...ask you something?"

He lit a match and took several slow drags, breathing out a strange-smelling purple smoke. "Sure Hermione, what's up?"

Studying her fingernails minutely, Hermione tried to gather her courage. "Well, you know Ron says you're very good with…." she faltered for a moment, blushing faintly, and finished in a whisper "...with, umm, _women_."

"I do alright," Bill chuckled. A small nostalgic grin flittered across his face, but he chased it away, adjusting his robes and trying very hard to look serious. "But that's all in the past, now that I'm about to be a married man."

"Yeah, right. Of course," Hermione reassured tensely. Taking a deep breath, she launched into her rather jumbled explanation. "But you see, the thing is, I have this _friend_ , who umm... _likes_ this witch. They met, and the witch seemed...interested, you know, so my _friend_ sent her a note... asked her to meet up."

Worried that her tale was too transparent, Hermione looked up from the hands clasped in her lap, but Bill seemed unsuspicious, so she went on. "Well, the witch never showed. So now my, er, _friend_ wants to know why she didn't come, and how to ask again…you, know, what to say to her…" she trailed off rather pathetically.

"Huh." Bill rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Where did this bloke ask her to then?"

"Uhhh…" Hermione stammered, casting about for something plausible, "To h-his house?"

"Well, see, _that's_ your problem right there!" Bill exclaimed, his tone leaving no doubt that he thought Hermione's 'friend' was an idiot. "A proper lady will never come to your house on the first date. It's a bit rude to ask, implies you think she'll give it up before you've hardly said hello."

"Oh," Hermione breathed, then again with dawning comprehension, "Ohhhhh…."

"Most girls like to be wooed...courted, so to speak -"

"Like flowers, and opening the door, and all that rubbish?" Hermione cut in with a snort of disbelief.

Bill shrugged, taking another great puff from his pipe. "Say what you will, but it works every time. I agree, all that stuff's a little old fashioned, but that's not the point. It's about proving that you're willing to make the effort."

Hermione drank in his words with an eagerness she typically reserved for the dustiest, most ancient tomes in the library, feeling as though some previously-incomprehensible aspect of human interaction was finally making sense. "You know, I never thought of that," she said, looking out into the fog distractedly.

"Hermione…" Bill recalled her attention, "This friend of yours...it's not Harry is it?"

"Harry?" she repeated, confused. "What makes you say that?"

The eldest Weasley ran his hand through his hair uncomfortably. "Well, the thing is...we'we got a running bet going as to how long it'll take Ginny to win him over. Fred and George say a year, I say longer. Any, uh, _inside_ _information_... would be much appreciated…"

'Arry will marry Gabrielle. Eet 'as been dezided," came the airy response as Fleur appeared beside them. Her sudden arrival startled Bill, who fumbled his pipe and tossed it to the side before she caught sight of it. He jammed his hands in his pockets, trying desperately to look nonchalant, while the pipe landed on a pile of old rags.

Hermione stifled her snicker, and turned to the still-oblivious Fleur. "Decided by whom?"

"By moi, of courze," the blonde witch declared imperiously, sending Hermione one of her half-pitying, half-disapproving looks.

Meanwhile, Bill casually maneuvered himself to the pile of rags, which had just begun to smoke, and surreptitiously tried to stamp out the fire.

"Zhey are perfect togezer!," Fleur went on, a dreamy cast to her voice as if she was reliving a fond memory. "He 'as saved 'er life! And Gabrielle iz much more beautiful! Eet will be so romantique, no?"

"Of course it will, darling," Bill placated - though his smile was noticeably stiff - and a satisfied Fleur left them as abruptly as she had appeared. Hermione narrowed her eyes at the retreating form, offended on her friend's behalf. "I'll put my money on Ginny _anyday_ ," she challenged, turning to Bill. "Ten Galleons says it'll be six months or less."

Retrieving his pipe from the charred pile, the redhead gave her the same mischievous grin she was so used to seeing on the twins. "You're on, Granger."

Hermione smiled, thinking that of the contenders, she was the only one with the influence to hedge the odds in her favor. Nor were her motives entirely selfish; anyone could see that Harry and Ginny were meant for eachother, though both refused to acknowledge it at the moment. _Typical_ _stubborn_ _Gryffindors_ , she thought fondly.

The evening had grown colder by degrees, and Hermione was just about to go inside when the charmed Galleon in her pocket began to burn, demanding her attention. It was a new-and-improved version of her D.A. device, one of a pair she used to communicate with her Ministry handler. She took it out and read the miniscule lettering which had appeared on its golden face. It was usually a demand for information - that, or a suggestive invitation - but what she saw this time made her heart skip a beat.

 _Something_ _awful's_ _happened_. _Meet_ _me_ _at_ _the_ _office_ , it read.

Without pausing to think, Hermione leaped from her seat. In a few minutes, she was at the apparition barrier, and in a few more, she had rematerialized in a drab little room in the bowels of the Muggle Ministry of Defense, where her handler worked shuffling paperwork for some army bureaucrat.

"E-Evelyn?" she stuttered, staring at the scene before her in growing horror. "What the hell is _this_?"

Hermione's gaze travelled from the woman before her, to the unmoving form on the floor, then back to Evelyn... where it lingered on the letter opener in her hand and the dark stain marring the front of her crisp linen shirt.

"Oh! You came!" Evelyn cried, dropping the knife and rushing forward, as if she meant to embrace her, but Hermione drew back, shaking her head mutely.

Realizing how she must look, Evelyn stopped short, pressing her hands to her front in an unsuccessful attempt to cover the smear of blood. "She - she just came at me! I didn't know what to do!" she explained hysterically, her delicate features contorted in desperation. "I just wanted to get her off me, I didn't mean to hurt her!"

Hermione brushed past the distraught woman without acknowledging a word of this, and knelt over the body, feeling for a pulse the Muggle way on instinct.

"She's dead," Hermione concluded quietly, struggling to shift the body to face the ceiling, surprised by her own detachment.

Evelyn let out a strangled gasp, bringing one shaking hand to her lips. "Oh gods, oh no…"

In other circumstances, Hermione might have marveled at how neatly their typical positions had been reversed; it was usually she who was the nervous wreck and Evelyn who kept a level head. Perhaps it was just residual shock from the battle, or the emotional aftermath of watching Agatha, Rockwood, and Sirius die. Was it possible to get used to death?

But something else had caught her attention - something unexpected and terrible. "But ...this…" she whispered in disbelief, "This is Emmeline Vance."

Evelyn's head snapped towards her suddenly. "How do you know her?" she asked, and Hermione noticed that her voice was carefully neutral.

"Through the Weasleys," she lied. "She's been at the Burrow a couple of times."

After all these months, Hermione was still unsure if Evelyn and Scrimgeour were aware of the extent of her involvement with the Order. She'd put them off with excuses about her being too young, and Scrimgeour, who thought precious little of Hermione's talents, was easy to convince that the Light too considered her beneath their notice.

Truly, Hermione hardly knew Emmeline Vance, aside from the fact that she'd been a member of the first original Order, and had once served as part of Harry's guard. Still, this situation seemed wildly improbable. "I can't imagine her trying to attack you," she said.

"Neither can I," Evelyn agreed. "She seemed completely crazed, completely out of control. I think...I think she may have been Imperiused."

Hermione knew her well enough to pick up on the slight tremor in her voice, the one that meant that she was desperate to be believed. Remembering what Bode had once attempted under Malfoy's thrall, Hermione thought it was quite possible that Vance would be cursed to attack someone. But even if she could easily picture the whole awful string of events, Hermione couldn't shake the feeling that Evelyn was hiding something.

Trust was an uncertain proposition in their relationship, professional and personal alike. From the very beginning, Evelyn had lied to her, used her, forced her into the untenable situation of choosing between Azkaban and betraying her friends. The morning Scrimgeour forced her to sign the contract that sealed her serfhood to the Ministry, Hermione had loathed Evelyn more than she had ever loathed anyone. And shortly after, when Scrimgeour spitefully assigned the the squib as her minder, Hermione had fully intended to make her regret what she'd done.

But things hadn't gone quite to plan. She couldn't anticipate Evelyn's genuine regret, nor her own desperate loneliness in the months she spent adrift from the timeline, watching the other-Hermione monopolize her entire life. One thing led to another, and before she knew it, they'd fallen into bed again. And again, and _again_.

Picking up Vance's wand, Hermione cast 'Prior Incantato', and was almost surprised when the ghostly echo of the Imperius curse shot forth from the tip, arcing across the room where it bounced harmlessly off a filing cabinet.

 _Someone used her own wand to curse her?_ Hermione wondered. _That's actually quite clever. No one could ever prove you did it._

But as soon as she thought it, she felt vaguely guilty for admiring such diabolical behavior.

"We can't leave her here," Evelyn cut in, watching Hermione expectantly.

"No, I suppose not," she replied. "Still, it's a handy way to get yourself fired, I guess. I know you hate this job."

"This is _not_ a joke," Evelyn cried, shocked by her flippant attitude. And yes, it was horrifying, tragic, ghastly. Abstractly, Hermione knew it.

But the only emotion she could muster in the moment was a biting resentment. "Oh I see," she smiled bitterly. "You want me to take care of this for you, is that it? That's why you called me?"

The silence that followed was all the answer Hermione needed. On her many sojourns into Hermione's subconscious, Evelyn had uncovered all of her secrets, and she held that knowledge over Hermione's head like an anvil, without ever needing to utter a single threat. There was no question of refusing.

Hermione took out her wand. Evelyn may have been an expert on mind magic, but all other spells - even the simplest - were quite beyond her.

"What-what are you doing?" Evelyn whispered.

"Vanishing her."

"No! No, if you do that, we'll never know what happened to her, who cursed her, or what she was doing here. No...there needs to be a full investigation. If Death Eaters had anything to do with this - and I'm sure they did - we need to know about it."

This was a very good point, Hermione had to admit. But she wanted to make sure it was the Order, and not some clueless Ministry lackey, that found Vance. So, they settled on the idea of leaving the witch by the Muggle Minister's house, where Hermione knew Kingsley Shacklebolt was currently working undercover as a P.A.

"Perhaps you should make an anonymous tip," Hermione suggested as they scoured the alley for a suitable spot. "She must have family. She needs to be found soon."

"That's too dangerous! But I do have another idea - " Evelyn began, thoughtfully studying the windows which looked down upon them, and the foggy sky beyond. "Do you know the incantation for the Dark Mark?"

Hermione nodded, catching on quickly. Given the current climate, it was perhaps the fastest way to draw attention, and would serve the added purpose of pointing the authorities in the right direction.

Thinking back to the World Cup, when they'd witnessed Barty Crouch Jr. perform the spell, Hermione made a complicated swirl in the air and mouthed " _Morsmordre_ ". A green mist shot forth from her wand, swirling above them slowly as if it was deciding what shape it ought to take.

"Did it work?" Evelyn asked, looking up uncertainly.

"Um...sort of?" Hermione muttered, fighting the wholly inappropriate desire to laugh as the mist settled into its final form. While the general outlines were accurate, the Mark looked like a cartoon rendition of itself, with the skull resembling a smiley-face and the snake looking more like a long, squiggly tongue.

 _I_ _wonder if Madame Lestrange would appreciate this_ , she thought suddenly, perversely.

And the universe must have been eager to answer her question, for the next thing Hermione heard was a very familiar voice shouting from around the corner.

"I'm must have come from there! Cover the alley! _Quickly_!" Hermione could have known that arrogant rasp anywhere, issuing orders like she was born to do it.

The sound of approaching footsteps followed this command, and Hermione turned, noticing Evelyn reach for her weapon - and stupidly, some part of her wanted to linger to catch even a single fleeting _glimpse_ \- but her body insisted on self-preservation. Her hand reached out to grasp Evelyn's, and they apparated away.

She took them to Evelyn's flat - a nondescript, Ministry-issued affair the squib used to keep up appearances. Shrugging off her coat, Hermione walked to the window, staring out at the fog-drenched skyline and trying to convince herself she wasn't disappointed.

Evelyn, meanwhile, was glaring daggers at her back, trying to draw a confession with the force of her silent anger alone. Eventually, she couldn't hold it in anymore. "So, did you Obliviate her?" she snapped.

"Who?" Hermione couldn't help but taunt.

"You _know_ who," came the icy response.

Turning around, Hermione smirked at her, amused at this thinly veiled display of jealousy. Evelyn had, after all, seen the memories of their meeting in Azkaban and a few of the rather lascivious dreams Hermione had had about the Death Eater since. Just then, she felt the flutter of a searching hand at the edge of her thoughts.

"Don't even try it," Hermione warned, brushing aside the intrusion with ease. "You should know better - you're the one who taught me Occlumency, after all."

 _But not before you got all the leverage you could ever need_ , was the unspoken reproach.

"This is serious," Evelyn insisted, ignoring Hermione's sigh. "I can't even _begin_ to imagine what you were thinking. Bellatrix Lestrange is the _last_ person you want involved in your business. Any dirt she has on you, she _will_ use to destroy you, Potter, the Order, and any chance we have of winning this war - "

"She never showed up, alright?" Hermione cut in mid-tirade, turning away lest her expression betray her feelings. The problem with living a double life was that the only person she could really talk to was also the one person who was sure to take advantage. So, she'd made the desperate mistake of spilling the whole twisted tale of what had happened at the Ministry to Evelyn, and had yet to hear the end of it.

"I thought you said she wouldn't be able to resist seeing that house again?" the blonde accused.

"I suppose I was wrong," Hermione admitted after a long silence, still surprised at how badly she had miscalculated the Death Eater. The thought that Lestrange had seen her note, and simply decided not to come upset her, and not only for the reasons her handler thought it should.

"Oh Merlin, this is _such_ a mess," Evelyn groaned, sinking onto the sofa and toeing off her heels. "She could jeopardize this entire operation. We need to fix this as soon as possible."

"There shouldn't _be_ an 'operation' in the first place," Hermione said, her temper flaring up again. "Did you talk to Scrimgeour? I demand another meeting."

"The thing is...he's very busy at the moment. You know he's in line to replace Fudge," Evelyn carefully evaded.

"Well, that's convenient, isn't it? Too bad he wasn't too busy to ruin my life!" she burst out furiously. "Did you tell him? Did you tell him I never killed anyone? Did you tell him about Agatha?"

Evelyn ran her fingertips along the edge of the cushion, refusing to meet her gaze. "I told him everything, but...the thing is, Hermione, with Agatha Mintumble umm, _missing_ , there's no way to confirm what happened. And, well...you already signed a confession, so technically - from a legal standpoint, that is - the contract you agreed to is binding even _if_ you're innocent."

" _If_ I'm innocent? _If_?" she repeated, absolutely indignant. "So Scrimgeour doesn't care to find out, because it really doesn't matter, does it? As long as I'm spying on Harry for him, pouring propaganda in his ear. Right now I'm supposed to be convincing him to sign on as the Ministry's poster boy for the war! As if _that's_ ever gonna happen!"

Evelyn sighed, giving her a look so cloyingly pitying it only made Hermione angrier. "I didn't say I agreed with it, I'm just -"

" _Telling me how the world works_?" Hermione interrupted, viciously mimicking the words the woman had said to her the first night they met.

Evelyn opened her mouth to respond, but shut it abruptly when she saw Hermione take out her wand and aim it straight at her. The delicate balance of power in their relationship was maintained not only by Evelyn's vast store of blackmail material, but also by her awareness of Hermione's belief that it was unethical to use magic against a person who couldn't defend herself.

But somewhere between discovering that Mr Engle's death wasn't her fault and finding Evelyn with the knife that killed Emmeline Vance in her hand, all of those moral certainties had blurred. Maybe it was Agatha's crushing betrayal, or Scrimgeour's ruthless opportunism, or maybe it was Lestrange's indifference in the face of her feverish, utterly hopeless longing - or maybe it was the incontestable fact that she'd brought all this on herself - but Hermione's simmering resentment at being life's perpetual doormat had finally boiled over, and would surely consume all those unlucky enough to be caught in its path.

"What are you going to do?" Evelyn asked, her face carefully neutral. Hermione didn't know whether it was an act or not, but as usual it irritated her immensely that she failed to inspire a single ounce of fear.

The question of _why_ she'd want to inspire fear was brushed aside - or rather, deliberately shoved into the depths - as she sent a scorching hex at Evelyn, causing her to jump up with a squeal.

"Hermione!" the older woman scolded, rubbing at her reddened thigh.

But watching that slow, rhythmic motion only inflamed her more. "Turn around," she commanded, her voice low and urgent.

"What - " Evelyn began, confused by the sudden change of pace.

"I said. _Turn_. _Around_ ," Hermione growled, sending another hex at the poor woman, who gave her a dark, burning look, but silently obeyed.

"Bend over the couch," Hermione said, surprised at the fierce jolt of satisfaction she felt when Evelyn did so without hesitation.

"Don't move. Don't look at me. Don't _speak_ ," the demands all tumbled out at once, breathless and desperate, as she crossed the room towards her prey, her vague desire slowly coming into focus.

First of all, the clothes were all wrong. That dreadfully posh Muggle skirt-suit Evelyn always wore - it all had to go. She tugged at the zippers, but quickly lost patience, tearing into the fabric ruthlessly til it was just a pile of rags on the floor. There was the hair too - stubbornly, blindingly _blonde_ \- but that couldn't be helped.

Still, it disappointed her. She pulled at it roughly, forcing a cry from Evelyn as her head was jerked painfully backward. Hermione held her in that awkward position, maneuvering her along so that she faced the window, her naked breasts easily visible to any potential spectator.

"Do you think the neighbors are watching you right now?" Hermione whispered harshly in her ear.

"Merlin, I hope not," Evelyn replied, breathless.

"I thought I told you not to speak."

Hermione made her point with another stinging hex, fascinated by the way the skin beneath her hands turned red so quickly. She gathered all that pale hair in her fist and shoved her lover's face into the cushion, so that she wouldn't have to look at either. Then, without preamble, Hermione drove three fingers into her.

Evelyn cried out, in pleasure and pain, but Hermione wasn't paying attention. In her mind's eye, it was someone else's heat pulsing around her fingers, it was someone else moaning her name over and over. It may have been twisted, yes, but in that moment she would have given anything to make the fantasy real.

But, if she couldn't fuck Bellatrix Lestrange, well - at least for now she could pretend.


	25. 1972

Hello all! Thanks for reading and reviewing!

Firstly, I'm glad that a few people liked the last scene and the way Hermione is being portrayed. Her character written as a shrinking violet never really did it for me, especially when paired with Bellatrix. However... that scene was meant to come off kind of unsavory and pathetic, so I guess I didn't write it the way I should have. :(

A reviewer wondered why Evelyn is able to perform Legilmency and Occlumency; all I will say is that her back story will be developed in due course, and that 'squib' is only Hermione's assessment of the situation. But if you're having trouble suspending disbelief, remember that Scrimgeour found out almost immediately, and has essentially blackmailed Hermione into working for the Ministry. She is also hampered by her own moral code, which is only now starting to break down.

I'm posting two chapters. If you don't care about backstory, or it bores you, or whatever - feel free to skip this one. The next chapter will have another meeting between Bellatrix and Hermione, as well as a lot of general chaos.

But the thing is, I really like writing Bellatrix in what I imagine as the Wizarding World's bad imitation of the 70s. To me she is a character very much haunted by the past - imprisoned by it, almost - so I think it is important to develop her pre-Azkaban storyline.

Anyways, hope you enjoy!

* * *

After Agatha's death, Hermione had almost expected Heaven's Gate to be repossessed by the Ministry, but as the days passed without incident, she concluded that the old Manor had either been forgotten, or was considered totally unsalvageable.

 _Well, their loss is my gain_ , she thought, sitting on the floor surrounded by a ring of open books. She was going through them one by one, casting every ward and protective enchantment she could find. By the time she was done, this building would surely be the most secure in Wizarding Britain.

And it was critical that it be so, for hidden behind one of the many locked doors was something that could bring an end to the world as they knew it. And Hermione was determined to guard it at any cost.

Just then, a sudden tapping at the window drew her attention, and she saw that a tawny post-owl had taken refuge from the rain on her window sill, and was glaring haughtily at her through the glass.

Rising, she went to let the bird inside, but just as she unfastened the latch, it dropped its parcel onto the ledge and flew off, disappearing a moment later into the downpour. The owl, it seemed, had even less time for her than his mistress.

Hermione sighed, unfurling the note pinned to the top of the parcel. It read:

" _Here is the file you requested. I hope you find what you need to find, so you can do what needs to be done._

 _And promptly._

 _PS. I want my key back."_

The words were practically dripping with disdain, especially the demand at the end. Did Evelyn really think she needed a key to get into her damned apartment? Hermione couldn't even imagine why the woman had given it to her in the first place. Probably some sort of throwaway gesture.

Things had been decidedly frosty between them since the night of Vance's death, and though the squib would never admit it, Hermione suspected her ire had rather more to do with the subject of the file in question than with Hermione's rough advances. It was undeniable that Evelyn wanted the matter over and done with - ' _and promptly_ ' - so in the end, it wasn't difficult to convince her to nip over into the Surveillance Department and nick this for her.

But there at last, sitting deceptively innocent on the table, was the Ministry file of Bellatrix Lestrange. Hermione picked it up, noting with satisfaction that it had a certain heft to it that promised for many hours of reading.

 _Any problem is best approached through thorough research. I should have done this ages ago_ , she thought, shuffling around the mounds of scrolls on the table to clear some space. Her industrial-size cauldron of the Draught of Living Death was carefully levitated to a nearby shelf, where it continued to bubble merrily away above one of her famous bluebell flames.

Finally settling down to her task, a cup of tea at her elbow, she opened the cover. There was a sheet with some simple background information and a color photograph of Lestrange from the 70s, which - with only a moment of hesitation - Hermione lay aside to keep. What followed was a list of crimes in which the Death Eater's involvement had been suspected, and beyond that there were pages upon pages of encrypted text. Another witch might have been intimated by the blocks of hieroglyphics, but not Hermione.

 _It looks like someone went through a lot of trouble to keep your secrets_ , she thought, summoning a stack of Ancient Rune glossaries with a sigh of resignation. It was going to be a very long night.

* * *

 _1972_.

"You can put your quills away," came the booming command as Moody stalked into the workroom, looking more menacing than usual with a bloodied bandage wrapped haphazardly around his head. "Today will be a … practical demonstration."

Everyone held their breath as he limped over to his desk, throwing down his leather satchel and omnipresent silver flask.

"Um...what happened to your head, sir?" dared one of the new recruits, breaking the overwhelming silence.

A gruesome smirk flittered across Moody's face, and he took out his wand, twirling it with casual ease - though the whole effect was deeply unsettling. "I walked into a door."

"Really?" the boy wondered stupidly, and over in her corner Bellatrix rolled her eyes, knowing exactly what was coming.

"No. I busted a cabal of Dragon-egg smugglers, apprehended three Dark Wizards, and tracked down a rogue Dementor," Moody said, in a tone one might use to read a grocery list - which of course, only made it _that_ much cooler. "Then, I had my lunch. And now I'm here with you nitwits."

A round of astonished gasps went through the room, followed by a wave of awestruck whispers: " _three_ Dark Wizards?", "a rogue Dementor?"

"Shut your infernal traps, all of you!" Moody snarled, banging his cane against the stone for emphasis. "Now, as I was saying, today we will begin our study of one of the most important parts of your job as an Auror."

He let the tension build, let them all speculate what fresh horrors this lesson had in store, as he walked over to the blackboard and slowly scratched a single word by hand: _Interrogation_.

" _Interrogation_ , you say? Isn't that just for namby-pamby lawyers and the old farts on the Wizengamot?" he imitated their imagined reaction in a high-pitched whine.

Meanwhile, in the very back row, the gaze of an incredibly bored Bellatrix somehow found Fawley's, and they shared a look of commiseration over Moody's penchant for theatrics.

"No, you snot-nosed little screwballs, it is _not_! Now, if I had my way, _this_ badge," a single gnarled thumb prodded his Auror crest proudly, "would be a license to kill, but in these supposedly civilized times, every miscreant, crook, and villain is entitled to a little something called ' _due process_ '." He said the last words with a shudder of disgust.

"Now, don't ask me what the hell that means, because I've never stayed awake in a staff meeting long enough to find out," Moody went on, drawing a round of nervous chuckles from his audience. "But as far as we're concerned, it means you need to hand in a signed confession with every arrest you make. And today, we're going to learn how to get it."

Right below ' _Interrogation_ ' Moody wrote ' _The five techniques_ '.

"Can somebody tell me what they are?" His beady eyes scanned the room, finally settling on the lone hand in the air, the one that was always the first to rise. "Fawley?"

"Deprivation of water and food, deprivation of sleep, prolonged stress positions, sensory overload, and … making them wear a hood, I think," Fawley recited eagerly, as if she was reading from a book, and clearly desperate for approval. And just like that, Bellatrix was back to despising her again.

"Correct," Moody nodded, and with a wave of his wand, a list appeared on the board. "These five are the only methods of interrogation we are legally entitled to use," he explained, perhaps a touch resentfully. "Now, once in a blue moon, maybe your hand slips, and maybe some low-life ends up with a broken jaw - _accidentally_ , you know - but I repeat, these are the only _officially_ _sanctioned_ techniques. Now, does that mean they're less effective than the more... _hands-on_ version?"

Fawley's hand was in the air before he'd even finished speaking, and Moody nodded at her. Bellatrix, determined to ignore the both of them, pulled out a scrap of parchment and began to doodle. She drew a giant serpent crushing a pathetic-looking lion, a scraggly bird, and a misshapen badger in its monstrous jaws.

"Well, as a matter of fact, recent trials have shown," Fawley began self-importantly, "that these methods are actually _more_ effective, because they cause psychological distress, and can thus be used over a long period of time. So even the most determined eventually break their resolve. Also, the subject potentially becomes suggestible, open to reindoctrination."

"Well done, as usual," Moody praised, an ominous sing-song lilt in his voice and a twinkle in his eyes. "Now that we've covered the basics, I have a little... _treat_ for you all. Today, we're going to see the five techniques in action! It's time for you lazy sods to get off your arses - were going on a field trip..." He looked around at the assembled faces, saw that most were looking back at him with dread, and grinned.

"To Azkaban."

...

In an entire year of sharing a flat, neither Bellatrix nor Andromeda had ever managed to master the art of cooking - and with Kreacher forbidden by their father to so much as launder a single dirty sock of theirs - were forced to frequent the Leaky Cauldron for their meals.

Making her way down Diagon Alley in the fading light, Bellatrix cast sidelong glances at the posters which seemed to plaster every storefront. Some warned passerby to be vigilant of becoming victims of the _Imperius_ curse, while others offered a reward for information about a group called the 'Death Eaters'. There were also bills bizarrely titled ' _WANTED: You Know Who_ ", with a giant question-mark below, in the space a photograph would usually fill. Nobody knew what his name was, or what he looked like. Bellatrix wondered why they bothered.

She pushed roughly though the queue outside the pub, flashing her trainee badge to anyone who dared protest. Aurors were enjoying a sudden uptick in status in these dangerous times, as trouble seemed to lurk on every corner and the people, for the first time in recent memory, were eager to believe that the Ministry was capable of keeping them safe.

"Bella! Over here!" someone called to her above the din. Turning, she scowled into the eager faces of Longbottom and Fawley, who were waving her over to a table across the room. It seemed that her thrice-damned sister had invited her friends again, but couldn't bother to come in time to meet them. Seeing no escape, Bellatrix walked over and sank into the proffered chair with a long-suffering sigh.

Fawley started in on her at once. "So, did they pull you in for questioning again today? Did they try to trick you into drinking _Veritaserum_ again? Do they still want you to spy on your Uncle?"

"Yes all around. Now would you _please_ shut up," Bellatrix ground out, desperately searching the crowd for a waiter.

"They want you to spy on Orion Black?" Longbottom asked, probably wondering why Andromeda had shared this juicy gossip with her friend and not her fiancée. "Isn't he the rich one who does all that export-import stuff with the Goblins? What do they want with _him_?"

He stared at Bellatrix, but when it became clear she wouldn't answer, he turned to Alice, who was only too eager to elaborate. "Well, we think the Ministry suspects he's supporting You-Know-Who financially, and helping him smuggle Dark artifacts and creatures into England. Now, nobody has ever been able to prove it, but I overheard Moody say that they're bound to catch him red-handed one of these days - "

Bellatrix couldn't hold in her irritated grunt. "Pure speculation. I don't know when you and Andy find the time to come up with this tripe."

"Well, if there's nothing going on, how come they're trying so hard to find out what you know, hmm?" Fawley said, crossing her arms defensively. Bella's answering glare was so darkly menacing that most would have flinched away, but the girl merely raised a challenging eyebrow.

"The House of Black has always been envied, admired, and - most importantly - _feared_. And rightly so," Bellatrix warned, palming her wand and rolling it in her fingers. It was an obvious threat.

Frank looked back and forth between the two of them helplessly, opening his mouth and closing it again, clearly at a loss for words. Fortunately, Andromeda's sudden arrival cut the tension like a knife. She bustled in, oblivious, grinning ear-to-ear, and plopped into the last remaining seat.

"Hey! You wouldn't _believe_ the day I just had," she gushed. "But how was training?"

" _Fine_ ," Bellatrix and Alice chorused, sparing each other a brief, awkward glance.

"It was boring and awful," Frank added sympathetically, with a comforting pat on Andy's shoulder."You're not missing a thing."

Andromeda laughed, brushing off his gesture with a shrug. "Well, then, I'm sorry for _your_ sake, because mine is going great! Healer Crickerly's just started a unit on Muggle medicine. It's all about their tools and methods and ideas - the things they manage to do without magic are really quite extraordinary!"

"That's so far out!" Alice exclaimed, the previous conversation all but forgotten. "Is it true they actually _stitch people up_? Like with needle and thread?"

"Surely not," Longbottom cut in with a disbelieving huff.

"It's true alright, although Ted says in the future, all of that will be done by _lay-sers_ and um, _roh-bots_!" Andromeda went on excitedly. "I'm not really sure what that means, but I think they're kind of like house elves made out of metal…"

 _How do these three manage to amuse themselves for hours over the most ridiculous things?_ Bellatrix wondered, sullenly munching on her chips.

"Stop talking rubbish, Andy," she snapped at last. "You sound like an idiot. And who is this mysterious 'Ted' you're always going on about?"

"He's nobody!" Andy blurted, though she could not disguise the flush which spread across her cheeks. "He's just a friend I made in the program. He's really very clever, he wants to get certified as a 'doctor' too, which is a Muggle type of healer."

Bellatrix let out a barking laugh. "My gods, _why_?" But just as she was about to take another bite, realization dawned, and she let the chip drop dramatically onto the table. "Oh, please tell me he's not a mudblood…" she whispered, regarding her sister in horror.

"I don't know. It's never come up," Andromeda replied primly. "And I don't see how it's relevant, anyways."

Bellatrix was thoroughly appalled. "You ' _don't see how it's relevant_ '?"she repeated in disbelief. "Are you _completely_ daft?"

"Ughhh Bella, quit being such a square," Fawley chided, coming to her friend's defense as always. "Last time I checked the Middle Ages were over. Welcome to the 20th century. Here - " she shoved a glass into Bellatrix's unwilling hands. "Have another pint."

Longbottom chose this moment to climb unsteadily to his feet and raise his own glass. "Let's have a toast to Muggles, the inventors of beer!" He hiccoughed. "And underpants too! Say what you will, but they're a useful lot!"

"To Muggles!" the others sang in agreement. Then, Andromeda caught sight of Bellatrix, who was looking about uncomfortably, as though afraid someone she knew would see her with the lot of them. "What?" she snapped, exasperated.

"Oh, nothing…" Bellatrix shrugged in a poor imitation of indifference. "Just trying to understand how I ended up with a bunch of filthy blood traitors for mates."

"Aww, did you all hear that?" Fawley cooed delightedly. "She called us her mates! D'you reckon she fancies us, Frankie? Here - give us a kiss, then." She leaned over, and Bellatrix, caught like a deer in headlights, could only await the inevitable.

As Fawley's lips grazed her cheek lightly, Bellatrix grimaced. But the moment before she wiped the kiss away was longer, perhaps, than it ought to have been.

...

"Two more years," Bellatrix muttered to herself for the umpteenth time as she stepped out of the Floo, toeing off her boots and sinking gratefully into the sofa by the fireplace. "Just two more bloody years and it'll all be over." She'd be a full fledged Auror. Nobody would dare to question her then, let alone imply that her entire family were nothing but a bunch of mercenaries and criminals.

Bellatrix sighed, wanting to put her feet up, but unwilling to stoop to using one of Fawley's 'beans-bags'. She refused to accept those garish multicolor sacks as furniture, though Andromeda assured her that everybody who was anybody owned one.

It was all part of the insufferable incursion of Muggleness into every quarter of Wizarding society, and the still-more-insufferable incursion of Alice Fawley into Bellatrix's flat. ' _Just think what we could save on the rent_ ,' Andy said. ' _It's only for a little while before Narcissa moves in_ ,' Andy said. ' _She's really not so bad when you get to know her_ ," Andy said.

Andy, Bellatrix had to conclude, was either a sadist or an idiot.

She had agreed, with the proviso that the girl be neither seen nor heard in the common spaces; but day by day, hour by hour, Bellatrix had unconsciously ceded more and more ground to the united front of Fawey and her sister. The weeks wore on, and tacky purple flowers slunk silently onto the wallpaper, kaleidoscope rugs sprung from the floor like weeds, and everywhere she seemed to look, there was a lamp full of some sort of floating incandescent blobs. Fawley claimed that they were made of lava, but Bellatrix had her doubts.

Still, the girl was not completely useless. Her cooking was...passable, and she was the only one who bothered to tidy at all. _'In the real world world, people don't have house elves to wait on them hand and foot_ ,' Fawley told her cheekily, and only her promise to Andy kept Bellatrix from hexing that self-righteous smirk off her face.

The door opened, drawing Bellatrix from her thoughts. It was her least-favorite flatmate, carrying an enormous sign proclaiming support for the "Magical Maintenance Workers' Strike" - which was already eye-roll-inducing - but to top it off, Fawley had donned another one of her bizarre costumes.

"Were you really out in public like _that_?" Bellatrix burst out, looking the girl up and down as if her clothes were a personal offense.

"It's called a mini-skirt, darling," Fawley chirped as she hung up her bag. "And I'll have you know that it's the _height_ of cool right now."

Bellatrix crossed her arms, determinedly studying a patch of grimy hardwood to avoid the temptation to ogle Fawley's legs. Sometimes she almost thought the girl did it on purpose to taunt her. "What it _is_ , is indecent," she snapped. "You might as well be selling it on the street for twenty galleons a go!"

"How very dare you!" Fawley cried in mock outrage, throwing herself on the sofa next to Bellatrix. "Thirty at the least!"

A smirk somehow found its way onto Bellatrix's face, and before she knew it, she was staring unabashedly at Fawley's thighs. "Well if I'd known that's all it took, I'd have coughed up _ages_ ago."

To her surprise, the girl drew a sharp breath and looked away. For a long time now, the pair of them occasionally took breaks from being at each other's throats to flirt, at least whenever no one was around. And Fawley was always the first to initiate it, though it seemed that Bellatrix had gone too far this time.

"Hmmm," the girl turned back after a moment of uncomfortable silence, eyeing the glass held loosely in Bellatrix's fingers. "I see someone started without me again."

"It's Friday," she said by way of justification. "I assumed you had another, uh, _suitor_. Gibbons? Or was it Dawlish?"

At that, Fawley crinkled up her face in distaste. "No, I had to ditch the pair of them. You know, people can be so unbearably _tedious_ with their jealousy. I mean, it's like nobody's ever heard of Free Love! No - it's all marriage proposals, left, right, and center!"

Bellatrix glowered into her whiskey, trying to stifle her 'tedious' jealousy. Not that she wanted … anything from Fawley. Let alone _marriage_. "Better than being betrothed by your parents, believe me," she said bitterly.

"Ah - you're right, of course." Fawley eyed her sadly, no doubt having heard the story from Andromeda, that incorrigible gossip. Then, with the air of having finally decided something, she moved imperceptibly closer on the sofa and placed her hand on Bellatrix's.

"You know, I really admire you Bella. It takes a lot of guts to do what you did - and I know you don't see it like that - " she waved away the protest on the tip of Bella's tongue. "But I bet that deep, _deep_ down…underneath that tragically stuffy pureblood exterior…" Bellatrix gasped as Falwey carefully traced the buttons of her robe with a single finger, "...there's a rebel just clawing to get out."

"Don't toy with me, _Alice_ ," she growled, grasping the finger painfully and twisting it back. It was the first time she'd used Fawley's given name.

The girl winced, but made no effort to withdraw. Her eyes gleamed with mischief as they danced across Bella's features, finally coming to rest on her frowning mouth. "Me?" she whispered, all smirking innocence. "I would _never_."

A blind fury, forever simmering right below the surface, rose in Bellatrix... and the next thing she knew, Alice was sprawled beneath her on the floor with Bellatrix's wand jammed painfully into her jugular. For months, Fawley had been picking at her defenses like a scab, wearing her down with fleeting touches, crawling under her skin to spread her slow poison. Never mind that she'd sworn herself to lifelong solitude; never mind the tortuous measures she took to bury her desire; never mind the walls she'd built around her heart in order to survive -

It was all undone as Fawley deliberately arched her back beneath her, thrusting her breasts invitingly upwards. The sudden intimacy of the contact made Bellatrix drop her wand in shock.

"But aren't you going to have your way with me?" Fawley murmured, gazing at her from beneath her lashes.

Jagged breaths ran like tremors through her body, but when Bellatrix spoke her voice was even. "You're not _disappointed_ , are you?"

" _Yes_ ," came the heated reply, and in that moment, Bellatrix thought she saw another crack in Fawley's shining, brittle mask. Was it possible that beneath that airy, taunting indifference there was something… something _real_? The girl was so full of spirit; so irrepressibly, unapologetically _alive_. Bellatrix wanted to burrow right beneath her skin, her flesh, and steal just a bit of that fire.

She had flown too long in the valley of shadows, and the first glimpse of the sun was blinding. Even the dim awareness that it would burn her alive couldn't stop Bellatrix as she was drawn irresistibly in.


	26. Fan Mail

"Is that it? Is that where the traitor lives?" Alecto whispered, eagerly eyeing the shack on the hillside.

They hid just beyond the shadow of the tree line: the Carrows, Draco, Snape, and their unenthusiastic chaperone, Bellatrix. It was the twins' and her nephew's very first mission, so the Dark Lord had chosen something appropriately … _instructive_. A trial run before tomorrow's main act.

"First we need to dismantle the wards, Draco," Snape said, placing a reassuring hand on his student's shoulder. "Use the spell I taught you."

"No thanks," Draco bit back, shrugging off the hand in annoyance. "Aunt Bella says it's better to throw up an Anti-Apparition jinx and just trap the target in his own wards. It's faster."

"Well your Aunt enjoys playing with fire," Snape sneered, turning to glare at Bellatrix, who raised her flask to him in mock salute. "Many of us are neither so reckless nor so - "

"Effective?" Bellatrix cut in, smirking. Leaning casually against a tree, she swilled the dregs of her whiskey, and realized that there was hardly a sip.

 _Damn_ , she cursed silently. It was her life's perpetual conundrum: bring a bottomless flask and risk getting accidentally drunk on a mission, or bring a regular flask and risk confronting her conscience dead sober.

But it was much too late to start feeling sorry for herself. There were entire Wizarding villages who feared her more than a natural disaster, too many children whose nightmares she haunted, too many people whose worldview would crumble if she was anything less than pure evil. And who was she to disappoint them?

"Let's move it along, Draco," she told him. "Your mother will have my head if you're not back in time for supper."

"Mother should know there's nothing more important than serving the Dark Lord," Draco announced, throwing the Potions Master a pointed glare. Evidently, Bellatrix was not the only one who had noticed that greasy little opportunist sniffing around Narcissa's skirts, and Draco seemed to have lost all respect for the man as a result.

Before Snape could even sigh in irritation, the boy had cast the jinx and forged ahead into the night, walking right through the invisible barrier with the Carrows at his heels. They were halfway up the hill when a dark figure emerged from the little house and took off sprinting in the other direction.

"Look! He's actually trying to make a run for it!" Amycus cried in disbelief.

"STOP!" his sister bellowed at the retreating figure. "Come back here, you coward! You filthy traitor!"

Her nephew, for his part, turned to her with a gleam of excitement in his eyes. "Aunt Bella...remember when you told me I couldn't practice Fiendfyre because we were inside? Well, now seems like the perfect - "

"Shut up," snapped, resisting the urge to rub the bridge of her nose. "All of you - just shut _up_. Haven't I taught you _anything_? Just - get into formation. Alecto, head him off at the right. You two, go left."

There was a moment of silence as three faces stared back at her blankly.

" _NOW_!" Bellatrix growled, startling the lot into action. They took off in pursuit, Draco stumbling over his feet in his haste, Amycus tossing out one sloppy Stunner after another, and Alecto unable to hold in her incoherent raving. Coming to stand next to Snape on the path, Bellatrix observed her scrambling recruits with disgust.

"Tomorrow is going to be a complete bloody disaster," she announced matter-of-factly, cringing as Draco stumbled head-first into the mud.

 _And now I know how Moody must have felt_ , the unsettling thought popped suddenly into her head.

"Don't blame yourself, Bellatrix," Snape said, almost - but not quite - weeding the laughter from his tone. "Teaching is a vocation; it's a rare wizard who excels at it."

As if of its own volition, her eyebrow quirked skyward. "And how would _you_ know?"

"Fair enough," Snape admitted with shrug. They stood quietly together as he seemed to grow pensive; when he spoke again, his voice was almost regretful. "Karkaroff, you know, was one of the good ones. He may be an utter bastard and a sniveling coward, but he was a damn good teacher. Once."

"Yeah, it's a damn tragedy," Bellatrix sneered. "Leave it to you to pity a traitor."

This tense exchange was cut short as the Carrows suddenly reappeared, dragging a bloodied Karkaroff between them. Draco, looking decidedly the worse for wear, brought up the rear with his wand resolutely pointed at their captive. But Bellatrix noticed that his hand was shaking.

"We've got him, Aunt Bella!" the boy panted.

"Bellatrix! Severus!" Karkaroff cried, an odd mixture of dread and relief on his face as he sighted his old colleagues. "Who the hell are these morons? Tell them to get their grubby paws off me!"

"These are the 'morons' that caught you," Alecto sputtered, flushed an unflattering shade of purple. "You're a sneaky one, but we got you in the end - didn't we Amycus?"

"Not bad for our first time, eh, Madame Lestrange?" her brother crowed, tugging his labels self-importantly.

"Oh sure," Bellatrix said. "It took the _three_ of you twenty minutes to capture a single half-starved wizard. How will I _ever_ contain my praise?" Draco alone had the decency to look away in embarrassment, while Amycus merely stared at her blankly and Alecto took out her anger with a vicious kick to their prisoner's shin.

Karkaroff gave a cry and fell to his knees, eyeing them in turn for any hint of mercy. He seemed to single out the Potions Master as his best bet. "Severus...Severus please…." he begged, "We're old friends. I _know_ you don't want to do this!"

Snape crossed his arms in a gesture Bellatrix could have easily called defensive, though his demeanor remained otherwise indifferent. "It's entirely out of my hands. You made your bed when you abandoned the Dark Lord."

"But I was loyal to the cause!" Karkaroff insisted. "Always! _I_ was the one who banned Mudbloods from Durmstrang; _I_ was the one who started teaching the Dark Arts again! _Me_! I did more for the cause than _anybody_!"

Bellatrix was not convinced. "If you had nothing to be ashamed of, why did you not return?"

"Because this whole thing is madness!" he burst out desperately. "Absolute _madness_! Can't you see it?"

When no one showed even a glimmer of understanding, he went on, no doubt hoping to convince them to spare his life: "I didn't sign up to get myself killed for the whims of some half-blood megalomaniac! Can't you see, he doesn't give a damn about preserving our customs! He doesn't give a damn about protecting the pureblood lineage! And he _certainly_ doesn't give a damn about his 'loyal servants'!"

"Lies! Filthy lies!" Alecto shrieked, her fists balled in fury.

"You're raving, Karkaroff," Bellatrix scoffed, even as some unnamable pang shot right through her gut. "How dare you blame your cowardice on the Dark Lord? You can't _begin_ to comprehend the sacrifices he's made to insure that our cause is victorious!"

But even as she said it, Bellatrix caught sight of her nephew's face, where the seeds of doubt had already taken root. The Dark Lord loved to assign new Death Eaters to hunt down traitors - as a warning - but she feared that tonight's mission would not have the desired effect on Draco.

Karkaroff shook his head sadly. "You were always the most deluded of the bunch, Bella. Everything the Dark Lord ever did, he did for _himself_."

"That's...that's not true!" she protested. "He _saved_ us! He rescued us from Azkaban!"

"And he threw everybody right back when it suited him! Look around, Bella: look who's replaced the old guard! You're rubbing shoulders with inbreds," here he gave the Carrows a look of utmost disgust, "with werewolves, guttersnipes, and common theives. While the Dark Lord is busy ingratiating himself with every filthy creature and half-breed, the old great families are dying away right under our eyes!"

Bellatrix could hardly summon the energy to be correct him; her head ached worse than a Bludger between the eyes and somewhere in Malfoy Manor, there was a large bottle of whiskey with her name on it.

" _We prune the tree to make it stronger_ ," she tonelessly quoted the famous saying of the Moste Noble House. "You may be a pathetic waste of magical blood Karkaroff, but you can still be useful. You should be grateful for that, at least."

She tossed his wand at his feet. "Get up. My students need the practice."

Watching the man stumble gracelessly to his feet, she turned to her nephew. "Draco, you can begin. The _Imperius_."

They went in rounds, casting the Unforgivable for the first time and forcing the poor wizard to do all manner of ridiculous things. The _Imperius_ required formidable powers of concentration, so it was not surprising that her nephew mastered it quickly, while the temperamental Alecto could hardly maintain it at all. She did, however, show a talent for the _Cruciatus_ , which proved difficult for the apathetic Amycus and the squeamish Draco. The Carrows tossed a Knut for the final round and Amycus, the winner, was the one to put Karkaroff out of his misery.

As the shimmering green of the Killing Curse faded into the night, the three recruits stood staring dumbstruck at the body, unexpectedly solemn in the face of death's finality. Even Snape and Bellatrix, battle-hardened and cynical as they were, observed a moment of silence for their fallen comrade.

Then, Karkaroff's body emptied its bowels, and Draco promptly lost his lunch onto his boots. Embarrassed and seemingly on the verge of tears, he turned away and ran to the forest, where he continued to heave up bile, leaning on a tree for support.

"Someone should check on him," Snape told her pointedly.

"You do it. He's _your_ godson!"

"True, but he's _your_ nephew." They glared at each other until Bellatrix was forced to admit defeat.

When she caught up with him, Draco was quivering, mopping the sick from his robes and refusing to meet her gaze.

"Oh Merlin, I didn't realize …" he shuddered, voice rough with half-suppressed tears."I didn't think it would be like...like _that_ …"

"Buck up, Draco." She gave him an awkward thump on the back, but it only made him flinch. Casting about for some words of reassurance, she went on: "Er…the first time's always the worst. It's just like sex."

Apparently it was the right thing to say, because the boy seemed to snap out of his daze to stare at her in confusion. "Death...is just like sex?"

"Well...ahh….just don't over think it," she finished uncomfortably, grabbing him by the arm before he could ask her more questions. "Come on, we need to get back."

They disapparated, and no sooner had they landed that Narcissa was prying the boy from her grasp. She hugged him close, then clasped his face in both hands and peered into it earnestly. Apparently what she saw there was not to her liking, because her eyes grew hard and accusing as she turned upon Bellatrix. "What happened?!" she demanded. "What did you do to him?! _Tell me_!"

Bellatrix could only stutter indignantly until Snape broke in. "It's just shock, Narcissa," he reassured. "A Calming Draught and straight to bed, and he'll be fine in the morning. Off you go, Draco!"

It was a mark of the severity of the situation that the boy complied silently, without sparing the Potions Master so much as a glare. He trudged miserably through the Manor's Great Hall, but stopped just short of the staircase.

"What's... _that_?" Draco pointed to the round table in the middle of the hall, where they noticed an enormous bouquet of dark flowers now stood.

"Those weren't there a moment ago!" Narcissa exclaimed. They waited as she summoned and interrogated each house elf in turn, but none could produce an explanation.

Meanwhile, Draco had sidled up to the table and plucked a white envelope from amongst the foliage. He squinted at it for a long moment, as though he couldn't quite believe what was written there, before turning a weary face to the rest of them. "They're for you, Aunt Bella."

Narcissa scoffed, reaching to grab the note from her son, but Bellatrix beat her to it. She unfolded the parchment carefully, half-expecting some hidden hex - or at the very least another terse summons - but there were too many words on the page, all formed with the uniform script of an Auto Quill.

Still, there was no mistaking the sender.

"Well? What does it say?" Narcissa asked impatiently.

Bellatrix just shook her head in astonishment. "It's...poetry."

"And _Muggle_ poetry at that," Snape pointed out disdainfully, reading the words over Bella's shoulder. "Byron, if I'm not mistaken."

At that, Narcissa gave a scandalized little gasp.

"Really, Bella? ' _She walks in beauty like the night_ '?" Snape quoted, one sardonic brow inching upward. "It seems you've somehow acquired yourself a deplorably sentimental admirer."

"Oh, you should have seen the fan mail I used to get in Azkaban," she smirked, being deliberately flippant to divert attention. "And there were photos too. Some were very, uhh... _stimulating_."

Snape threw up a hand. "Please. Spare me the details." He claimed to have a pile of grading awaiting him at the school, and soon disappeared into the emerald flames of the Floo.

When they were finally alone, Narcissa gave voice to her barely-contained disapproval. "But isn't this all in rather poor taste, Bella? Quoting _muggle poetry_? And the bouquet - you know black irises are traditional _funeral flowers_!"

Tracing the delicate stalk of a bloom with her fingers, Bellatrix couldn't fight the grin tugging insistently at her lips. "As usual, my dear sister, you've missed the point _entirely_."

When Narcissa stared back in confused irritation, Bellatrix was forced to elaborate.

"Someone had to deliver this," she explained. "It wasn't us. It wasn't the house-elves. Someone _walked right into this house_ and _put it here_. Right under the Dark Lord's very nose."

Bellatrix watched her sister's eyes widen as the implications sunk in. "So what is it then? Some kind of _threat_?" Narcissa asked fearfully.

A threat. That was certainly possible, but Bellatrix suspected that it wasn't really the girl's style.

"No," she said, something uncomfortably akin to fondness in her voice. "I think ... I think she's just showing off."

* * *

In an unexpected twist, the Ministry decided to do the noble thing and refused to surrender to the Dark Lord. Of course, the timing for this uncharacteristic display of valor could not have been worse.

Bellatrix woke at the crack of dawn to the unbearable burning of her Dark Mark. She was already out of bed and kneeling with her forehead to the wall before the daze of sleep begun to clear and she remembered that she wasn't in Azkaban any more. Stumbling around her room half-blind, by some strange miracle she managed to get ahold of some boots, a cloak, and her last good vial of hangover cure.

"To your newfound freedom," she hailed her reflection in the mirror, downing the potion, which brought a foul-tasting but mercifully-swift relief. " _Cheers_."

Downstairs, the others were already assembled in the hall; they stared as she rushed in, robe hanging off one arm and hair askew. The scene reminded of Hogwarts, where she was habitually late to every class she didn't like (nearly all of them, save flying and lunch). But in _this_ Hogwarts, the Professor handed out the Cruciatus instead of detention, and took limbs instead of house points.

"M-my apologies, M-my Lord-" she panted, taking her place beside a scowling Yaxley and trying to look as unobtrusive as possible.

"Never mind, Bella," he dismissed with a wave of one ghostly hand, never raising his eyes from the maps laid out on the great table. "You'll be taking in the sights of Muggle London today. Yaxley, you will join her. And...hmm, Greyback, why don't you pay Diagon Alley a visit?"

"It would be my pleasure…" The werewolf gave a throaty chuckle, his monstrous lackeys rushing to laugh along with him.

"With all due respect, My Lord," Selwyn burst out, giving voice to what no one else dared say (though they were all thinking it), "Is it wise to let this … this _creature_ ... loose in _our_ district? Certainly he could be put to better use among the Muggles-"

"You _dare_ question me, Selwyn?" the Dark Lord hissed. For a moment it seemed he would strike the man dead in his boots, but he held back, closing his eyes as though praying for the patience to deal with his idiot subordinates. Bellatrix almost sympathized.

"This is _not_ the time for your sniveling. It's the time to show the Ministry what lies in store should they fail to reconsider. And to that end - I explain though I doubt most of you have the capacity to comprehend - we contemplate _tactics_."

He eyed their fearful faces with contempt. "Does anyone know what I'm talking about? _No_?" His gaze finally settled on her, softening just a hair. "Bellatrix?"

"To motivate the Ministry, we need to maximize _terror_ ," she recited obediently, standing taller when she saw his satisfied nod. "And the wizarding public is most terrified by..." she gave Greyback and his cronies a sidelong glance, "our _furry friends_ , the Dementors and the Giants - all the creatures the Ministry prides itself on controlling. And should it look like they are _losing_ that control…"

"Indeed," the Dark Lord nodded. "Remember, my friends: we must never lose sight of our ultimate goal!"

 _The ultimate goal_...yes, Bellatrix was one of the few who understood, who saw the bigger picture. Unlike that poor sod Karkaroff, she knew that sometimes you had to dig around in the dirt to plant the seeds of victory. Sometimes you had to play the game the opposition had set out.

Sometimes you had to get in bed with the enemy.

Bellatrix caught herself smirking distractedly at her boots, and tried to stuff _that_ particular thought back into its murky corner, hoping that no one caught on to her embarrassment. How much of a fool was she, really, to go down that path _again_?

There were much more important matters at hand, she told herself firmly. This was her chance to show her Lord something _spectacular_. She needed to reclaim his regard and to improve the family's position, which was precarious enough after Lucius's blunder at the Ministry. And to assist her with this worthy task…

"Alecto, Amycus - Rowle too - go with Bella," the Dark Lord ordered.

…were arguably the dimmest three of the whole lot. Which was _really_ saying something.

She should have known right then that things would go to shit. But that queasy, foreboding feeling only began to prick at her heels when they apparated to the location.

 _Brockdale Bridge._ She watched it from the shadow of an alley between two warehouses. The Ministry had drastically increased security Muggle-side after the Dark Lord's ultimatum, so they had chosen some out-of-the-way tourist trap for their target. Usually, Bellatrix hated moving in without proper reconnaissance, but this was meant to be a simple smash-and-go job: just blow out the bridge supports, help some Muggles into a watery grave, and hopefully find her way back to a cold beverage in the garden before noon.

The first Stunner nearly caught her mid-flight, and she twisted around on her broom to see no less than a dozen Aurors on their tail. How they had found them, and so quickly, Bellatrix couldn't begin to guess. The Carrows, having apparently forgotten everything she'd ever said about defensive maneuvers, fell in a frantic dive towards the water, bringing the fight right along with them.

The Aurors gave chase, jets of light streaming in every direction, glimmering across the icy waters of the Thames and bouncing off the stone supports. A loud _crack_ reverberated through the air a moment later - the bridge trembled, someone screamed - and just like a pack of rats before the flood, the Muggles started scrambling to the shore.

For a second, Bellatrix considered just apparating out of the air and leaving them all to it.

But then somebody fired another hex at her…and before she knew it, she was dueling three, maybe four, dodging curses on her broom with the agility of a Golden Snitch and cackling madly at their poor attempts to bring her down. What made it sweeter still was watching the Ministry dogs inadvertently help them with their plan as the bridge took hit after hit, crumbling before her eyes.

Talented as she was, even Bellatrix found it hard to fight off multiple foes in such an open field; so, she took them to ground, weaving between the buildings on her broom and trying to draw as many Aurors as she could away from the others. It wasn't that she cared if her fellow Death-Eaters got themselves killed - in fact it would make her life a lot easier - but she knew the Dark Lord would not be happy to lose his new 'friends'.

Unfortunately for her, whoever was training Aurors these days seemed to be doing an admirable job; they split off in pairs, flying around to try and corner her on all sides.

" _Fuck_ ," she cursed, feeling the unmistakable pull of wards as she tried to apparate but couldn't. "Fucking bloody _hell_. Merlin's thrice-damned _baggy sodding Y-front_ s."

"Get her!" someone yelled as she dodged a curse flying overhead. "She's down there! _Look_!"

"Leave her, she's mine!" a familiar voice yelled back. It took Bellatrix a moment to place it: it was her niece, Nymphadora.

" _LESTRANGE_!" the young Auror bellowed, hurtling through the air in mad pursuit. "Get back here and fight, dammit!"

"If you think you can take me, you're a fool," she called out, leaping off her broom and rushing down a covered passage where they couldn't see her. They'd ended up in some sort of deserted Muggle industrial area.

She heard the muffled _thump_ as they landed just around the corner, then her niece's wary, taunting voice. "Why don't you come out and prove it, then? Don't you want to _purify the family tree_ , weed out the _blood traitors_ and _half-bloods_ , and all that rot?" Her voice grew cold as she mocked the pureblood rhetoric. "Well, come on then! Here's your chance!"

Looking about, Bellatrix spied a metal monstrosity of some obscure purpose at the mouth of the passage - she wondered how the Muggles came up with these awful things - and prepared to blow it up right as they turned corner. But the inexplicable happened: magic surged through the air, and they passed by her hiding place, looked right through her, and kept going.

Letting out a breath of relief, Bellatrix was about to make her exit when she heard a shuffle in the corner. With impossible speed, she spun on her heel and pinned the intruder with her wand. But she was stunned into silence as none other than _the girl_ walked from the shadows, her hands raised in a gesture of surrender. Bellatrix didn't lower her wand, waiting for the girl to speak.

Long moments passed as Bellatrix yielded to the girl's intense scrutiny, feeling her pulse quicken in response.

"I have a... proposition for you," the girl said at last.

" _Oh_?" Bellatrix murmured, a thrill of anticipation running down her spine - only to be supplanted suddenly by disappointment as the girl withdrew a scroll of parchment from her robes, the Ministry stamp on it clear as day. _So it turns out to be a tedious political offer, after all._

"What a _surprise_ ," she huffed. "Well, you're wasting your time. I don't make deals with the devil anymore."

Perhaps this wasn't the response the girl had been expecting, because she furrowed her brow. "The new Minister is prepared to offer you pardon in exchange for your cooperation."

"Is he, _really_?" Bella's reply practically dripped with cynicism as she glowered at Scrimgeour's new errand-girl. The Ministry had been tossing her these empty offers for decades now, and it was really starting to grate on her nerves. "Well, you can tell Mephistopheles that I've already sold my soul."

"Surely there must be something I can do…" The girl walked cautiously closer, her arms still raised. "To convince you to think about it."

 _Oh, you've **got** to be kidding me_ , Bellatrix though, narrowing her eyes in irritation. _Did they really think she could be bought with a pretty face and a nice arse?_ And then, unexpectedly: _I'd hoped it was more than this._

"You can tell me who killed Emmeline Vance," she growled. "For a start."

The girl visibly blanched at this. "The … the Order Member? I … don't see why you'd care."

"The Dark Mark was over her body, but it wasn't one of us," she explained. "You know something," she tossed out - guessing really - though it was only the girl's reaction that raised her suspicions.

"I know a lot of things," the girl evaded, coming closer in a bald-faced attempt at distraction - which Bellatrix had to admit was working. " _Auror_ Black."

Bellatrix shook her head, and to her infinite shock, she actually found herself stepping _back_. _What the hell was **wrong** with her? Since when did she back away from a fight?_

"They never made me a full Auror."

"Oh, that's right," the girl conceded, finally lowering her arms as she came closer still. "They kicked you out the day of your initiation."

There was maybe a foot between them, and Bellatrix could feel her gut twist painfully in anxiety - that familiar aversion to having anyone too near. Her hand shook furiously as she thrust her wand right at the soft spot where the girl's neck met her collarbone.

"Moody finally found what he'd been looking for for years." She gave the girl her best ominous sneer. "Proof of where my loyalties _truly_ lay."

"And where is that?" the girl whispered, so near that Bellatrix caught the slight hitch at the end of the sentence. But the eyes that looked back at her held not a trace of fear, and Bellatrix found the sight _incredibly_ unnerving. Surely, only a madwoman would look at a convicted Death Eater like _that_.

And more to the point: she wasn't entirely sure she knew how to navigate interactions not ruled by fear. It left her nothing to work with. Nothing to hold on to.

Bellatrix coughed uncomfortably. "Give me a reason why I shouldn't just kill you right now," she said, though the demand came out more like a plea.

In response, she felt something cold and hard prod her ribcage. "Because bullets are faster than spells," the girl announced, as though that explained everything.

"And what pray tell, is a _bullet_?" Bellatrix asked her, exasperated for reasons she couldn't fully articulate.

But before she could get an answer, she heard the distant echo of voices. " _Madame Lestrange_!" Alecto's voice rang out. "Madame Lestrange? Are you here? We followed you!"

"I'll show you, next time," the girl promised, the shadow of a grin dancing about her lips. "You know where to find me."

Bellatrix scoffed at this unbelievable arrogance - angry, offended, amused, and flattered all at once. "What makes you think I would even _consider_ it?" she bit out.

Evidently there was no end to the girl's insolence, because in the next breath she actually dared to lay her hand on the front of Bella's robe...from which she withdrew the envelope with last night's letter. An envelope Bellatrix had no earthly reason to be carrying on her person.

"Call it a hunch." The girl smirked, apparating on the spot just as the Carrows rushed in.

They found Bellatrix standing still as a statue, staring blankly at an empty spot on the floor, as the ghost of a blush spread across her cheeks.


	27. Ships in the Night

Thanks for the lovely reviews! I get really excited when I see a new one - it reminds me to keep working on this story, which sometimes seems daunting because there's so many plot points. Well, I did that to myself, so I can't complain!

So, the main POV has switched over to Bellatix, which means we will uncover what's going on with Hermione and the time-line as Bellatrix does. I'm glad some people are liking the long-winded explanations of Bellatrix's past. Just a hint: in the 70's Bellatrix becomes an unknowing witness to some dodgy dealings which directly affect the present (the 90s).

Anyways, please enjoy the story! I feel the plot has been kind of heavy lately, so this chapter is more lighthearted.

* * *

For a woman who faced mortal peril on a daily basis, Bellatrix Lestrange seemed to spend a whole lot of time hiding in broom cupboards.

And, qualified as she was on the subject, she was sure that the broom cupboards in the Ministry of Magic were the most rank, repulsive, and claustrophobic of all. The leaking tin buckets and sour-smelling mops were obviously the same ones from twenty years ago (and they'd been ancient even then). Worse, the same unbearably chipper elevator jingle still echoed through the halls, bouncing around her skull like a runaway Bludger.

Stake-outs were definitely a young woman's game, Bellatrix decided, shifting uncomfortably in her seat for the hundredth time. And her youth was long, _long_ gone, leaving her little besides a pang in her spine that hadn't gone away in decades and a head full of thoughts she didn't want to be alone with.

Just as the waiting was becoming unbearable, the door opened. It was Yaxley, and she was almost... not unhappy to see him.

"You have twenty minutes before the shift-change," he whispered. "More, if you're very lucky. Her office is right though Auror HQ, the door at the very end."

He stepped back to let her pass, but couldn't seem to let her go without a parting jibe. "Oh and do _try_ not to make a mess this time. They're still trying to figure out how to piece that door in the Department of Mysteries back together."

Bellatrix cocked her head, giving him a scathing once-over. " _I_ am a professional," she finally said. " _You_ , on the other hand -" she prodded his chest with her wand, watching his flinch with satisfaction, " - are a power-grubbing gutter-monkey in an expensive suit. Now - do _try_ and stay out of my way."

Without waiting for a response, Bellatrix shoved him roughly aside and made her way towards the massive oaken doors at the end of the hall. Above the entry hung a faded plaque which read, ' _AUROR OFFICE: Responsibly Serving the Magical Community since 1741_.' That sign never failed to draw a derisive snort from the witch. She didn't know which was funnier - ' _responsibly_ ', ' _serving_ ', or ' _community_ ' - but the whole thing was complete and utter bullshit.

Bellatrix had sworn that she'd set this place on fire before ever stepping foot in here again, but the Dark Lord had other plans. So, she made quick work of the wards and soon enough was standing in the cavernous hall beyond, where she'd once toiled among the faceless, pencil-pushing horde. The air was stale with the smell of burnt coffee and dead aspirations; and the sight of all those cubicles - those little cardboard prisons of civility - made the bile rise in her throat.

Walking past her old desk, Bellatrix noticed that they'd tried very hard to remove every trace of her presence. Mindlessly, she picked up the stapler, and grinned at the inscription insistently glued to the bottom: ' _This stapler is the property of Bellatrix Black. Sticky fingers get the CHOP!'_

If there was one thing the Noble House of Black was good at, she thought, it was Permanent Sticking Charms. Dear old Aunt Walburga had _nothing_ on her.

Neither did the Ministry, for that matter, if their lackluster wards were anything to go by. She'd expected more from Amelia Bones, who had a reputation as a formidable witch, but the protections around her office presented only a momentary challenge.

The Dark Lord wanted Bones, the longtime Head of Magical Law Enforcement, evaluated as a potential target for bribery, blackmail, the Imperius, or - failing all that - elimination. To that end, Bellatrix spent a good fifteen minutes rifling around the woman's desk: she leafed through a meticulously-organized planner, rummaged around a safe-box that held nothing more interesting than a few unregistered wands, and glanced at some files she didn't have time to decode. If Bones had any dirty laundry - and Bellatrix rather doubted that she did - there wasn't a shred of evidence to be found here.

She was just about to give up when a photo fell from a folder and landed on the floor. She picked it up, squinting thoughtfully at the two men waving back at her. The picture was faded, maybe 30 years old, and the wizards were young, sunburnt and grinning. Below, someone had written ' _Operation Mooncalf: 1st asset, with handler?'_

Bellatrix sighed in frustration. There was something tickling at the very edge of her thoughts, but she couldn't _quite_ grasp it. It never used to take her so long to figure things out, but Azkaban had turned her mind into a quagmire she didn't want to step foot in.

If she hadn't been so focused on the damn picture, she might have noticed it sooner: that faint shift in the aura of the room announcing the arrival of foreign presence. As it was, Bellatrix didn't look up until she heard the soft rustle of a cloak … and when she did, _the girl_ was already standing there.

In a fraction of a second, Bellatrix had stuffed the photo in her pocket and raised her wand, but once again she hesitated to cast. She noticed that the girl looked thoroughly exhausted today. Her robe was draped carelessly over a rather wrinkled muggle T-shirt and there were purple rings under her eyes. It had been weeks since the London raid - the last time they met - and Bellatrix was so busy that she'd hardly thought about it. It was a tough job, after all, being the Dark Lord's only competent servant.

"Fancy meeting you here," the girl said, and there was a smile in her voice that didn't really reach her eyes.

Bellatrix couldn't help but snort at that. "Oh, so it's _coincidence_ , is it?" she hissed, putting the desk between them to escape the girl's shameless staring. "Because I think you're following me. The question is _why_."

"I have a better question…" the girl countered in that infuriatingly casual way, rounding the desk in pursuit. "Why are you _running away_?"

She'd never seen anybody try harder to get herself killed than this stupid girl, Bellatrix had to admit. That, or she'd somehow landed in an alternate universe, one where attractive young women routinely went about flirting with dangerously unbalanced Death Eaters.

"I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt," Bellatrix offered mockingly, "And assume you don't know who you're dealing with."

The girl gave her one of those small, wry grins, but it vanished as quickly as it had come, replaced by what Bellatrix suspected was a habitual air of thoughtfulness. She'd noticed that expressions shifted like the tides across the girl's face, giving her a strange, mutable quality. But tonight she seemed even more erratic than usual.

"Well your file _was_ quite informative," the girl told her, fingers dancing fitfully across the tabletop. "But I guess there's nothing like hearing it straight from the source…"

She said it in the way one might comment on a rare exotic plant. You just _had_ to see in person. A faded illustration in some dusty tome just wouldn't _do_.

 _And is it all you'd hoped?_ Bellatrix wanted to ask, but didn't. Instead she said: "If this is about that damn Ministry offer, you can tell them to go - "

"I gave them your answer," the girl cut in. "They weren't exactly surprised, but I guess they expected you'd be more, umm…" she gestured vaguely, searching for words, "... _open to persuasion_."

"Tell me something," Bellatrix asked suddenly, "How exactly does someone like _you_ end up getting pimped out by the Ministry?"

"I - what? I'm _not_ \- I mean, it's _not_ like that," the girl stuttered out. It was the first time Bellatrix had seen her so flustered.

"Oh, I think it's _exactly_ like that," Bellatrix smirked, satisfied with finally having the girl on the defensive. "But, what could they possibly have on _you_? What did you do - forget to renew your broom registration? Steal a candy bar from Honeydukes?"

A shadow fell across the girl's face, and suddenly Bellatrix remembered: the Mintumble sisters, Rockwood's death, time-magic… No, she realized, whatever this little witch was up to was _far_ from innocent.

"I'm not here on anyone's behalf," the girl said quietly. "Not today."

"Then exactly what is it you want?"

Brown eyes flickered searchingly across her face, and for a second Bellatrix thought the girl would throw out another clumsy come-on. But instead she took a totally different tack.

"I've... heard you're very good at finding things."

And that was the _last_ thing Bellatrix expected, unless it was appended to, ' _so maybe you could find your way into my bed_ '.

What the girl actually said, though, was, "Well, I need something found - a book called _'In t_ _he Spirit of Time_ '."

All this sneaking around did seem like a lot of trouble for some book, but the girl's agitated state told Bellatrix that she must really need it. Finally, here was an opportunity to get some answers - and, more importantly, some _leverage_. She would wait to confront the girl about the conversation she'd overheard at the Ministry until she had this book.

"And in exchange…?" Bellatrix prompted, her treacherous mind supplying all kinds of sordid suggestions - ones she would _never_ condescend to make. It was one thing for the girl to be interested in Bellatrix (inexplicable as _that_ was) but the reverse would be just … pathetic. Like those sleazy, balding wizards who used to flock to watch her Quidditch games when she was still at school. No - Bellatrix may have done some terrible things, but she would never stoop _that_ low.

The little witch wrinkled her brow thoughtfully, perching herself on the table in a girlish way that instantly made Bellatrix uncomfortable. "You get me that book and I'll … ah, I'll find out how Emmeline Vance died."

Bellatrix had to admit it was a good offer. The Dark Lord had been hounding them about it relentlessly, convinced one of his servants was hiding something. "I'm going to need something besides a name to go on," she said.

"I wish I had more to give you," the girl shrugged. "I don't know who wrote it or who's owned it. All I can tell you is that it's early 19th century and passed through Borgin and Burkes in the 70s. Now, I don't really expect you to find it, but -"

"Oh, I can do a lot _more_ with a lot less," Bellatrix interjected, annoyed the little wretch dared doubt her. "As you're going to find out."

The girl gave an abrupt laugh. "I never know if you're flirting with me or threatening me."

Bellatrix narrowed her eyes, thinking, _here is another one who doesn't know her place._ "So far, you haven't impressed me enough to warrant either," she dismissed.

Looking rather affronted, the girl opened her mouth, thought better, and shut it with a snap. Jumping off the tabletop, she gave Bellatrix a last, lingering look and earnestly said, " _So far._ "

Then, she vanished with a _pop_ , leaving Bellatrix to contemplate the fact that apparating within the Ministry was supposed to be impossible.

* * *

Despite her protestations to the contrary, Bellatrix couldn't deny she was intrigued. Intrigued enough, certainly, to put aside her pride and pay her old boss a midnight visit.

Borgin had always kept odd hours, likely as much to accommodate his more questionable clientele as anything, so she was not surprised to see the candle flickering in the back room, casting an eerie light upon all of the strange articles in the store. Beside a jar of pickled eyeballs she noticed the Hand of Glory, holding pride of place in the center of the mantelpiece.

 _Sentimental idiot_ , Bellatrix thought, knowing he hadn't sold it all these years because it was the last thing she ever brought him. She picked it up, turning it over and wondering if young Draco could find a use for it now.

"Y-you can t-take whatever you want," came a trembling whimper from behind the counter. "Just - please don't h-hurt me!"

Bellatrix turned to him, saw that he was cowering on the floor already, and sighed. She hadn't even taken her wand out. "I just have some questions."

"I don't know a-anything, M-Madame Lestrange. _Please_ \- "

He stared at her with that special wide-eyed terror she'd seen a hundred times, on a hundred different faces. It was...unsettling to now be called 'Madame Lestrange' by a man who used to call her ' _luv_ ' and ' _darlin_ ' in that condescending-old-man way that she used to ignore because he was fundamentally harmless.

But it was gone, whatever human connection they'd once had - she was just a black cloak now, a silver skull-mask, a wand wielding death.

"I need a book. I've heard you had it once. ' _In the Spirit of Time_ '."

Confusion seemed to only deepen his fear. "' _In the Spirit of Time?_ '" he repeated in disbelief. "Is this...is this some kind of test?"

"A _test_? What the hell are you talking about?"

"No, no, no, no, no…" Borgin shook his head frantically, looking anywhere but at her. "He told me never to tell anyone, and I _never_ have. I never told a soul! You _have_ to believe me!"

Bellatrix narrowed her eyes, suspicion settling like a lead weight in her chest. After all, there were not many who could inspire such terror after so many years. "Who told you that?" she asked quietly.

"The D-Dark Lord," Borgin whispered, eyeing the shadows as if afraid that saying the name would summon the man himself. And for once Bellatrix was really hoping that it _wouldn't_.

It suddenly occurred to her that the girl _must_ have known - if not, why go to a Death Eater with that request? But then again, why tip your hand to the other side like that? Was it desperation? Distraction? A trap? All she could do was wonder.

Borgin, meanwhile, couldn't seem to stop babbling nervously. It was as if he was trying to stave off her anger with explanations. "He asked me to get it for him, twenty years ago. I swore to never speak of it, and I haven't! I thought you were here to make sure I kept my word!"

"Well, congratulations. You pass," she declared, sparing the man a disdainful glance as she took out her wand. " _Obliviate_."

There was a strange lump in her throat when she stepped out of the flames into the Malfoys' drawing room. Narcissa looked up as Bellatrix approached, laying down her embroidery on the couch. Her face was drawn with worry, unconvincing in its genteel indifference. Yesterday she'd had book, and potting the day before: all pretexts to wait up for her sister's return.

She opened her mouth, intending, no doubt, to launch another elaborate guilt-trip - but Bellatrix cut her off. "Is the Dark Lord here?"

"He's gone to Switzerland with Pettigrew -"

"Good."

Narcissa gave her a strange look. "Bella, wait -" she began, but her sister had already crossed the room, shutting the door on the rest of her words.

Bellatrix _couldn't_ wait. If she hesitated, she would lose whatever reckless impulse had gotten ahold of her, and then she'd never be able to go through with it. Before she walked into his chambers, she took a moment to steel her mental walls; it would be hard for him to see into her mind from Switzerland, but...you could never be too careful.

Unlike the dolts at the Ministry, the Dark Lord did not skimp on wards; he'd made his room more secure that the Supermax ward at Azkaban, in a house full of alleged supporters he obviously didn't didn't trust an inch.

 _And he's not wrong_ , she thought with a pang of guilt, as much for this betrayal as for the relative ease with which she undid his spells. She knew him well enough to know which curses he preferred, well enough to know the devious way his mind worked, well enough to know he'd never guess she'd be the one to break his trust.

It was not the first time. As a matter of fact, it had been a habit with her once, right before the end of the war. And Bellatrix was a creature of habit if she was anything. That, and a fucking disappointment to everyone she'd ever met. The Dark Lord was no different.

She'd be lying to deny the sacrilegious little thrill she felt laying her hands upon his things: his scattered papers, his potions ingredients, each neatly labeled, his antique Alchemy set, his prized Phoenix heart, carefully preserved in its green jar. How odd it was that such a larger-than-life wizard would have such commonplace possessions. How odd it was that he would keep a scrapbook of the Daily Prophet articles that mentioned him, going back decades. The very first, Bellatrix saw, was just a tiny block of text, announcing the arrest of someone named Morfin Gaunt for the murder of three Muggles. The scrap was dated ' _1943_ ' in the Dark Lord's elegant hand.

Filing away that information for later, Bellatrix began to rummage through his book collection. The one she needed wasn't hard to find; small, black, and rather sloppily bound, it was wedged between two volumes of The Complete Encyclopedia of Dark Creatures: from Acromantula to Zombie.

She couldn't say what she'd been expecting - nothing benign, certainly - but the words beneath the title still made her blood run cold. " _A Treatise on the Effects of Time Travel on the Human Soul_ " was stamped upon the cover in gilded letters.

It was hard to say which disturbed her more, the Dark Lord's interest in this book...or the girl's. There was no author, no date, no writing. Instead, the pages were covered with some strange runic symbols and numerals she'd never come across before.

Bellatrix scowled. Loath as she was admit it, there was only one recourse available now... one slimy, double-dealing, intolerably smug recourse. _Snape_.

In all fairness, one had to admit the man was not a total incompetent; the care he took to protect his little hovel from intruders was nothing short of meticulous. But there was always _something_ , always some tiny fissure where Bellatrix would seep through like black tar, always some crack she could claw open into an entrance.

She jumped down from the ledge of the second floor window, her spelled boots silent against the floor. Snoring was coming from a room at the end of the hall, and she crossed it swiftly, kicking the door open so that it slammed into the wall.

Snape woke with a startled grunt.

As he groped frantically beneath his pillow for his wand, she cast _Lumos_ , illuminating her face in a sinister blue glow.

" _Bellatrix_?!" He squinted at her, then at his bedside clock. "It's three o'clock in the bloody morning."

"Is it?" She shrugged, disdainfully picking up a chipped ceramic mug and tossing it aside. "You know, this place is even more of a dump than I remember. Surely Dumbledore pays you enough to engage a house-elf?" Examining his rumpled appearance, she smirked. "Or do you spend it _all_ on hair products?"

Snape rubbed the bridge of his nose, a gesture no doubt perfected over more than a decade in what Bellatrix considered the worst profession in the world.. "Just...tell me what you want."

Removing a bundle from her cloak, she tossed it at him - it hit his chest with a dull thud. "What do you make of _that_?"

"It's a book," Snape said, his mouth a thin line of exasperation.

"Brilliant observation. No wonder they call you the clever one," Bellatrix snarked. "So, can you translate it or not?"

With a resigned huff, Snape opened the cover, peering at the symbols inside. "Ancient runes are hardly my area of expertise, but.." Whatever he saw must have piqued his interest, because his voice turned thoughtful, and his hands on the pages were suddenly careful. "How did you get this? It looks incredibly rare."

Bellatrix crossed her arms, struggling to contain her impatience. "All you need to know is that I need to know what's in that book. Urgently."

"I hope you're going to give me a better incentive than the …" he eyed her with distaste, "... _pleasure_ of your company."

"I'll...owe you a favor," she promised reluctantly. The words left a foul aftertaste, worse even than Polyjuice.

"Does the Dark Lord know about this?" Snape asked out of nowhere, and Bellatrix silently cursed him for being much too perceptive for his own good.

"No, and unless you want me to tell him about your little _arrangement_ with Cissy, he's not going to find out," she threatened.

It was an impasse, and they both knew it - one of those rare times when mutual loathing was put aside in favor of mutual benefit. Or, as Slytherins called it: friendship...

Bellatrix cut off that train of thought immediately, disgusted with herself.

"I have an acquaintance in Europe who _might_ be able to help," Snape said, "But it will take some time. I'll owl you when I know for sure."

"Fine," Bellatrix shrugged, turning to walk to the door. But she couldn't make herself leave without reasserting their familiar dynamic. "So, does my sister know you sleep in your grandma's nightie?"

"This is a _men's_ nightshirt," Snape bit out stiffly.

Bellatrix barked a laugh. " _Of course_ it is."

Laying down, Snape brought the covers all the way up to his beak-like nose and turned to the wall. "Get out of my house," he muttered.

Bellatrix didn't need to be asked twice. She went out the way she had come, trailed by Snape's echoing demand : "And next time, use the bloody front door!"

* * *

Bellatrix woke to the characteristic _tap-tap_ of an owl pecking at her window; it was one of Diagon Owlery's dour-looking messenger-birds, glaring at her balefully through the glass. It wasn't hard to guess who had engaged the owl; after all, there was only one person who sent her mail these days.

What she didn't expect was the little package that had been dropped unceremoniously on her window sill. She eyed the contents with confusion before turning to the note inside the box.

 _This is a Muggle fountain pen,_ it read _, in case you ever feel compelled to write back. It holds a reservoir of ink in the shaft that you can refill - much more convenient than a quill, no?_

The pen was silver and black, beautifully crafted as the poem the girl had sent was beautifully written; both taunted Bellatrix to admit their beauty despite their Muggleness. It was as though, while trying to win Bellatrix over, the girl couldn't help but make her point.

Bellatrix was, of course, _terribly_ offended. Offended _and_ disgusted. Still, the pen made a graceful line on the parchment as she drew a curve, then another, carelessly sketching the silhouette of a woman's back.

"What do you _really_ want from me, Hermione Granger?" she mused aloud, wondering if the real thing looked anything like her drawing.

"Haven't we exhausted that subject already?" came the petulant response from the corner as her cousin's ghost drifted through the wall from the bathroom. "Whoever said hell was bad never had to listen to you moan about girl problems."

"You pestered me for _days_ until I told you, and now you're complaining? Anyways, it's nothing," Bellatrix dismissed, tossing the pen on the table and watching it roll to the floor. "Just another poor attempt at a bribe."

The ghostly Sirius crossed his translucent arms and studied her dubiously. "You're not very convincing, Bella. What I don't get is why you're so hung up on this girl?"

" _Me_?" Bellatrix scoffed. "I don't get 'hung up' on anybody!"

She shut her eyes painfully tight to dispel the illusion, but when she opened them he was still there. Just _hovering_. Hovering and _smirking_.

Knowing how much she hated it, Sirius floated through her desk, stopping in the middle so that it looked like his upper torso was growing out of the wood. "Maybe it's because you have no life, Bella."

"I do have a life. I serve the Dark Lord, I …" she paused, trying to come up with something else, "I _chat_ with Narcissa when it can't be helped, I -"

"Drink your weight in firewhiskey," Sirius interrupted smugly. "That's not a life."

"Well, it's more than you've got," she snapped.

This pronouncement was followed by a long, accusing silence.

"That was really unnecessary, Bellatrix," Sirius said at last, and had he not been relentlessly haunting her, she might have laughed at the pout on his face. As it was, his ghostly self-pity struck her as deeply unsettling.

"Oh, come on..."

"No - I'm going," he announced coldly. "I can tell I'm not appreciated here." And with that, he floated away through the wall, head held high. For all she'd tried to banish him from the house, Sirius came and went exactly as he pleased, usually just in time to deliver some cutting jibe and flounce back to wherever the undead hung out when they weren't pestering the living.

A punishing chill lingered in the air long after he'd gone, unabated even though she lit the fire in the grate, stoking it into a tiny inferno. But even the pulsing dance of the flames did not lessen her silent dread. Bellatrix had seen a hundred unspeakable things in her life, but strangely, none horrified her more than this: proof that death was not the everlasting oblivion she had courted so long. Could there be anything worse than succumbing at last to that sweet endless sleep, only to find yourself trapped in a shadow-world like Sirius, never quite living, but never quite free?

A knock at the door broke the mausoleum-like silence, making Bellatrix flinch.

"Bugger off, Cissy," she called.

"Ummm...this is Draco, y-your nephew..." came the quavering reply. "Do you...do you remember we were going to start Occlumency lessons today?"

Biting off a muttered curse, Bellatrix unearthed a robe from the pile on the floor and tossed it on. As she wrenched the door open, Draco reared back, his hand raised instinctively to his face as if afraid to be struck. The boy acted mostly normal around her nowadays, but in rare moments she would catch him unawares and bring out his underlying fear of her.

She gave him a sour look. "Get in here."

He followed her in with the air of one entering the cave of a sleeping beast, while she rifled around her shelves, bringing a small stone basin to place on the desk between them. "This..." she explained with reverence, tracing the delicate carvings on the surface, "...is a pensieve. Before we begin, you're going to take out the memories you don't want me to see and put them in here."

The boy opened his mouth to ask her something, but she cut him off with a raised hand. "Let me rephrase that - you're going to take out the memories that _I_ don't want me to see. Like you snogging Little Miss Pugface, or those trolls you call friends, or whoever."

"Wait, do you mean Crabbe and Goyle?" he squeaked. "You think I would _snog Crabbe and Goyle_?!" Just the thought of it made him retch. "Ewwwww…"

"Hey, I don't know what you're into," Bellatrix told him with a shrug. "And that's how it's going to stay, got it?"

The boy said nothing as he pulled out a few silver strands from his temple, turning apprehensive eyes upon her when he was done.

"Put your wand on the table," she instructed, laying hers down as well. "Legilimency and Occlumency are magics of the mind, so you will learn how to defend yourself wandlessly, or not at all. I will attempt to breach your thoughts and you will attempt to divert me to the most harmless memories. Remember, your aim is to distract me rather than kick me out entirely."

Draco furrowed his brow in thought. "Because… if someone tries to read my mind, I want them to think they're succeeding? I don't want them to know I'm an Occlumens?"

It seemed that Lucius' shrewdness and Narcissa's circumspection had brought forth a rather perceptive young man. Offering Draco a satisfied nod, Bellatrix looked him in the eye and thought, _Legilimens_.

It was, in her opinion, totally impossible to teach someone Occlumency without deeply regretting it. Most people were just a quivering mass of petty vices and ego, overflowing with self-righteousness and lurid fantasies she wouldn't have touched with a ten-foot broom. And teenagers, Merlin help her, were the absolute _worst_.

For all his grandstanding, the boy was very much still a child, preoccupied with girls, Quidditch, and his ongoing rivalry with Harry Potter. Image after image of their schoolyard squabbles flashed through her mind, until she changed tactics suddenly and dug deeper, right to the core of Draco's well-hidden self-doubt.

She saw Lucius, berating a five-year old Draco for crying over a dead rabbit as Narcissa looked on, disapproving but passive. Lucius, teaching Draco to fly. Lucius, picking the boy up as he fell from his broom for the hundredth time. Lucius, speaking in front of the Wizengamot as the crowd looked on with respect. Lucius, being dragged off to Azkaban, his features contorted with fear. Vicariously, she felt Draco's love for his father, his desperate desire to please, his burning humiliation.

Finally, with a grunt of effort, the boy derailed that train of thought, and she was back to watching him duel Potter in the Hogwarts dungeons.

Draco's curse missed its target, sailing over Potter's shoulder, and hit a bushy-haired schoolgirl straight in the mouth. Her tiny hands tried hopelessly to hide her rapidly growing teeth as she burst out sobbing. Draco chortled at the memory, and Bellatrix had started to laugh along until realization doused her like a bucket of ice water.

 _It's her. Her as a child._

Having seized on this topic at random, Draco continued to summon more memories of the girl: being taunted by Slytherins, fidgeting in her seat with her hand in the air, punching Draco in the face, dancing in dress-robes at some ball, conspiring with Potter in the back of the class -

"Enough," Bellatrix groaned, wrenching herself from his mind with a painful tug. Bile rose in her throat as she turned away, trying to hide her reaction.

The girl _as_ _a child_? By Circe, the girl _was_ a child. She was clearly in Draco's year, no more than sixteen, seventeen years old. Bellatrix had known it too - Lucius had told her once - but she'd apparently chosen to forget it. Conveniently.

 _What the hell is **wrong** with you?_ Bellatrix though, self-loathing oozing along her skin like sludge. To think, just this morning she'd been imagining the two of them...imagining...

"I think I'm going to be sick," she moaned, leaning over the waste basket.

"Oh!" Draco squeaked behind her, clearly uncomfortable. "Ummm... just - just hold on, Aunt Bella! I'll have the house elf get you a hangover cure!"

Of course the boy would think she'd been drinking. She hadn't - but that would change very, _very_ soon. In fact, every sober second with this recovered information was agony.

They stood there waiting for the house elf, awkwardly avoiding each other's gaze. Just as Bellatrix was about to tell the boy to get out, he made a strange humming noise, and said: "I didn't know you've known Greyback so long."

"What?" she asked, confused by the apparent non-sequitur.

The boy was looking at something on her desk. "This photo looks old." He picked it up, bringing it closer and squinting at the pair of wizards. It was the photo she'd taken from Bones' office, the one she couldn't quite figure out. "Like _really_ old."

Looking at it now, she couldn't believe it had escaped her before. One of the men was definitely a young Fenrir Greyback, just missing a few scars and that crazed gleam in his eye. But who was that with him?

As luck would have it, Draco supplied the answer. "I can't believe he's standing with Scrimgeour like that - like they're mates or something. Pretty _weird_."

 _So_ , Bellatrix thought, _why would Bones have a thirty-year-old photo of Greyback and Scrimgeour?_

Pretty weird indeed.

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Reviews are greatly appreciated.


	28. Muggle Abominations

Hello all,

First, to answer some questions: yes, Hermione is older than her peers because of all that time traveling (maybe 19-20 going by the timeline in this story). Why doesn't Bellatrix realize it? I think it's a combination of being preoccupied with other things and still suffering the mental distortions caused by Azkaban. I've left the resolution of the two-Hermione problem deliberately ambiguous, so you'll have to wait to see what happens there.

Some were hoping for a Hermione/ Bellatrix interaction in this chapter, and there is one near the end. A reviewer wrote that "Hermione's transition was startling at first" and I was wondering if they could elaborate, because I've been feeling like that too and wonder if I should go back and do some rewrites.

Thanks for reading! Reviews are greatly appreciated.

* * *

There had been a time, Bellatrix mused, when she could do no wrong in her Master's eyes. She was like his favorite child - precocious, pretty, talented - whose slightest accomplishment would give rise to an extraordinary effusion of praise. But the child had grown into an awkward adolescence, turned sullen and wayward by degrees, and worst of all, had never quite managed to live up to her potential. These days, when she caught the Dark Lord looking her way, it was with the same disappointed expression her father used to wear.

It was funny how things came full circle.

For all her scrambling and striving, she hadn't come very far, it seemed. What was it she had wanted the most in childhood? Was it freedom? The freedom to hold the threads of her destiny in her own hands?

It was the irony of ironies that at the very first taste, she'd fashioned those threads into manacles, leapt gratefully back into servitude. But what did it matter, when all was said and done? What did it matter, in the larger scheme of things? It was said that all paths lead back to the same place - like the rain outside, falling inescapably back to the black earth.

Thunder came like a giant hand tearing open the sky, and for a moment the downpour was torrential. Her vision blurred, and then refocused on her own reflection in the glass. The face that stared back was skeletal, full of shadows and angles, cold and hard with dread. Now that she was older, she looked little like her Mother, less like her Father, and least of all like her younger self.

Oh yes, Bellatrix knew she had been beautiful once. Nobody had let her forget it, after all: not her parents, not her classmates, not her colleagues, and certainly not the men that buzzed like vultures around the edges of her life. She may have even reveled in that power, were it not quite so fleeting or quite so illusory, if she had been able to do what was necessary to capitalize on it like Narcissa. But Bellatrix would not cajole, or flatter, or flirt. She refused to be owned like her sister, or paraded in society like some prize thoroughbred.

And _had_ she amputated every rebellious part of herself to fit that ladylike straightjacket, she _still_ would not have the respect she'd so desperately wanted. She'd given everything to be the best at what she did, but the only respect she ever got came from the fools cowering at the end of her wand.

The click of the door interrupted this gloomy reverie, and then -

"Oh, Bella! _There_ you are!"

Sighing with resignation, she turned to see Lady Malfoy in the doorway, with a stack of papers in her arms and a determined smile on her face. "Here I am," Bellatrix agreed, raising her glass in a sneering salute.

"It's almost like you've been hiding from me," Narcissa accused, bustling in in a dressing gown that was easily better than any dress robes Bellatrix ever owned. "You haven't been, have you?"

The only response she received was a noncomittal snort as Bellatrix turned back to the fireplace.

When had she taken up the habit of sitting by the fire for hours every night like an old woman? It must have been right after she moved out of her parents' house. That was the last year she could remember living without that perpetual chill that lingered in her very bones.

Evidently deciding to plough on with an air of cheerfulness (that only those who knew her well would have guessed was forced) Narcissa sat beside her sister and dropped the files into her lap. "I'm working on a list of important accomplishments of the Blacks through the ages," she explained. "A sort of unofficial biography of the House. I can't believe no one's done it yet - so many of us were great politicians and scholars and artists." She drew a nervous breath and peered at Bellatrix, who had not acknowledged a word of this. "I would be wonderful if you could help me," she finished, tentative.

" _Us_?" Bellatrix scoffed, and when she saw her sister's blank expression, she went on, "You said many of 'us' were politicians and scholars and artists."

Narcissa drew back, and her face faltered as if she knew what was coming. "So?"

Bellatrix gave her a grim smile, thinking, _of course she knows_. "There's no 'us' anymore, Cissy. You're a Malfoy, I'm a Lestrange, and Andromeda's joined the Mudbloods. The House of Black is dead," she declared with a dramatic sweep of her arm, spilling a good bit of her whiskey. "I killed it along with Sirius."

Her tone was icy, challenging - as if daring her sister to offer either pity or condemnation.

But Narcissa just rearranged her skirts primly, refusing to rise to the bait. "That's not true. Draco will inherit the title now, officially uniting two of the best, oldest families." She looked proud, as though this was the best outcome she could imagine.

"Your precious Draco doesn't give a flying _fuck_ about the House of Black," Bellatrix told her, a vicious slur creeping into her tone. "It hasn't got the cash or the political influence or the tacky Manor. But I guess it must be looking a damn sight better now that dear Lucius is Public Enemy Number 2."

She sprawled out in her seat with an exaggerated groan, knowing exactly which buttons to push, and was rewarded with a glare from Narcissa. Dear Narcissa, who would die before she let someone catch her using the wrong fork at supper, couldn't handle her sister's utter contempt for decorum on the best of days.

"Who knows, maybe the boy will even condescend to burn down Grimmauld," Bellatrix went on darkly. "Finally put it all to rest."

Narcissa drew a sharp breath. "You - you can't mean that."

"Oh but I _do_ ," Bellatrix confirmed with a bitter little smirk. "Look what's become of our generation, Cissy! Look what we made of ourselves! Regulus was too weak to survive, Sirius was a traitor, Andromeda was a slut, you're the house-witch of the saddest excuse for a wizard since Father, and I'm a bloody nutcase." She listed their 'crimes' with a distant sort of contempt. " _That's_ our legacy. They're going to say the House of Black fizzled away into irrelevance…into _nothing_. Wouldn't you rather go out with a bang and be done with it?"

Narcissa glanced at her, saw the chaos swirling in a dilated, unsteady gaze, and looked away. "I _hate_ it when you get like this," she quietly reproached. "You have to stop doing this to yourself. People are counting on you. I'm counting on you, Draco is count-"

" _Again_ with your _precious Draco_ ," Bellatrix cut in, jumping out of her seat with poorly-suppressed irritation. She was restless enough to pace, but too drunk to do it with any semblance of coordination. "He resents you, you know," she went on, cutting her eyes to Narcissa to see if the shot found its mark. "Blames you for not doing more for Lucius in his time of need. Tell me, Cissy, does _precious Draco_ know you were only too happy to get rid of that husband of yours?"

The blonde witch pursed her lips, trying and failing to hide the way they trembled. "That is...not true," she said, but the waver in her voice gave her away. There was nothing Lady Malfoy loathed more than showing weakness - an aversion that had been beaten into them all from earliest childhood - but her eldest sister had always had a talent for going straight for the jugular.

" _Liar_ ," Bellatrix smirked, teetering as she turned from the window. "Did it start to chafe, having to fuck him every night for your monthly allowance?" she asked, all mock-concern, stalking closer to her victim. "How exactly did that transaction work - you make him cum and he buys you one of those fancy frocks? Or did he make you really _earn_ it?"

"Don't be disgusting," Narcissa spat, the haughty demeanor not quite hiding her flush of humiliation. "You are an exceptionally hateful drunk, do you know that? You should consider why you're so desperately unhappy that you need to drag everyone else down with you."

"Oh ye gods, please spare me the lecture tonight," Bellatrix cried, raising her hands skyward in a parody of prayer. "If you were anymore smug, sister _dearest_ , it would be coming out of your bloody ears."

"This is not about me. It's about _you_. Deep down, you must know that I'm right!"

"I never said you weren't. But maybe, just _maybe_ , I don't need to have it thrown in my face _EVERY FUCKING DAY_!" Before she knew it, her voice had risen to a yell and she was standing over a frightened Narcissa with her hands balled in fists. At the look on her sister's face, Bellatrix gave a growl of frustration and turned away.

Instead, she raged at the fire. "You think this is how I wanted things to turn out? You think I don't realize - "

 _You think I don't realize what I've become?_ She'd been right on the verge of saying it, but couldn't get the words past her teeth, even now.

In the silence that followed, Narcissa's tired exhale seemed unnaturally loud. "I know-"

"You don't know _shit_ ," Bellatrix interrupted furiously. " _This_ …" she gestured around the room with contempt, "...is the life you always wanted. You just didn't expect that one day, all this expensive _crap_ ," she picked up a porcelain vase and threw it into the grate where it shattered, "...wouldn't be able to compensate anymore!"

Narcissa looked at the glimmering shards coolly, as if considering whether they were really worth saving, and when her pale eyes found Bella's, they were singularly unimpressed.

"But Mother would be so _proud_ of you," Bellatrix went on with a mocking lilt, really trying to draw blood. "You're the only one of us who fulfilled all of their expectations, after all. You must be so _happy_ to have spawned yet one more mediocre, coddled, spineless," she gave a vicious sneer, "... _paragon_ of blood purity. At least you have _that_."

So finally, Bellatrix got what she wanted as the aristocratic mask slipped from her sister's face to reveal naked fury. But Narcissa said nothing, and that, Bellatrix realized, would always be the biggest difference between them. Narcissa would never throw her pregancy in her face. She would never say, _You could have had that too, but you killed it._ She would never say, _and thank Merlin for that, because you would have been the worst mother in the whole fucking world._

And it was infuriating, because for some inexplicable reason, Bellatrix was desperate to have someone tell her what a shit human being she was. She wanted somebody to tell her what she couldn't tell herself.

Miraculously, Narcissa managed to be graceful even in anger as she rose from her seat and took out her wand. Bellatrix eyed the wand disbelievingly, watched the tremor run from her sister's hand to the glowing tip - stood still as the spell sailed over her shoulder and into the fire to repair the vase she had broken - then turned away with a dismissive little huff.

"You can insult me all you want, but don't you _ever_ presume to insult my son. Not while you're living under my roof!" Narcissa's voice quavered even as she made a visible effort to calm her herself. "All I wanted to do tonight was spend a little time together, like we used to. Do you remember that? We used to have fun. You used to smile. You used to _laugh_ ," her voice cracked, the memory of their lost happiness like a reopened wound.

Bellatrix gave an exaggerated eye-roll. "I really don't need this right now - "

" _You_ don't need this?" Narcissa looked as though she would cry from impotent fury. "What about _me_? You don't know how _sick_ I am of your endless tantrums. You're like a child, lashing out at everyone who tries to help you! And now there's no one left but me, and I am at the absolute _end_ of my rope!"

"Well what are you waiting for then?" Bellatrix challenged, coming so close that Narcissa's wand jabbed at her ribs. "Why don't you put us both out of our misery, hmmm? You know the incantation, don't you?" she slurred, her mouth twisted in a grotesque parody of a smile. "Here, let me remind you…" She grasped Narcissa's wand hand, forcing it to draw the pattern of the curse as she began to chant: " _Avada Kedav-"_

"NO!" Narcissa cried, wrenching her arm away and stumbling back. The look she gave Bellatrix was impossible to describe - it was terror, and heart-break, and hatred, and love - before she turned and ran from the room.

Suddenly finding it unreasonably hard to keep herself upright, Bellatrix barely managed to sink onto the sofa before she passed out.

* * *

When she woke it was morning, and someone had unceremoniously dropped a note beside her body for her to find. Cringing at the repulsive taste in her mouth, Bellatrix carefully maneuvered herself onto the floor - a hard surface to hold onto while the room refused to stop spinning - and looked at the letter.

The script was so tiny and spiteful it could have only been from Snape, who was apparently as stingy with his ink as he was with his good will:

 _No success with translation, despite consulting several sources. Apparently codeword is needed for cipher. Book enclosed. Have put wards on upstairs window - that is to say, I hope I never see you at my house again. SS_

Bellatrix snarled in incoherent frustration, considered sending the useless bastard a Howler for his trouble, but wrote it off as too much work. She would just have to change her strategy with the girl, which wouldn't be a problem now that Bellatrix no longer cared about getting in her pants. The gloves were coming off, so to speak.

She never did get around to owling the girl for a meeting because events conspired to throw the little wretch in her path once again.

The Dark Lord assigned Bellatrix the unenviable task of leading a host of Dementors to attack a Muggle village. Though the Ministry would probably consider it another ploy to strike terror into the hearts of the populace, the simple fact was that the creatures had proliferated to such a degree that Malfoy Manor could no longer contain them. They were growing more restless by the day, and her Master was right to fear their indiscriminate hunger.

But still, Bellatrix couldn't escape the feeling that he was doing it to punish her. For there was no 'leading' Dementors; you could only open the floodgates and run for cover before the torrent swallowed you up. The Dark Lord claimed that she got the most dangerous missions because of her skill, but some small part of Bellatrix suspected that she was now one of his liabilities. He would never kill her himself, of course...but she doubted if he would ever save her again.

 _And am I destined to die in this Muggle hell-hole?_ Bellatrix wondered, eyeing the dark storefronts and manicured shrubs with distaste. There were dozens of those awful contraptions called 'cars' all around, but thankfully they seemed to be sleeping.

"They're coming," Alecto whispered, pointing up to where a swirling storm cloud was fast approaching.

Suddenly the wind picked up, cutting through their cloaks with a biting chill. Bellatrix saw the first Dementors zoom down from the sky, and as they drew near, the grass by her feet turned grey with frost, shriveled, and died.

"We need to leave!" Alecto called over the howling wind, her brother nodding emphatically by her side.

Indeed, they _did_ need to leave, and quickly, before some stray Dementor forgot what side it was on and made a meal of one of their souls. The plan had been to lead the whole horde into town, and run on home before the chaos really got underway. But no - that would have made her life _easy_ , which was something the fates could never allow.

She wasn't even surprised when the tell-tale _pops_ of apparition broke through the noise of the gathering storm. One after the other, Aurors materialized in the street around them, and it may even have been intimidating, were it not for the way their faces changed from smug determination to abject terror as they looked to the black vortex in the sky.

" _REDUCTO_!" someone bellowed, and an uprooted tree was suddenly barreling towards her.

With a jerk of her wrist, Bellatrix turned the tree into a million splinters, sending a few of the Aurors ducking for cover behind an old van. They couldn't hide for long, though, as she sent the van flying at the two wizards dueling a desperately overwhelmed Rowle.

He shot her a grateful look over his shoulder, but it only increased her desire to slap the stupid off of his face. The Carrows had some poor kid on the ground between them, and were taking turns hexing and kicking him. Selwyn was firing Stunning spells in every direction, hardly caring who he hit.

In short, it had all gone to hell in less than a minute.

Few people realized that when it came to dueling, Bellatrix was a lover of _precision_ and _finesse_ , above all else. There was nothing that got her going quite like a brilliantly executed maneuver, but the vast majority of the time, these battles just devolved into a frenzy of senseless scrambling. The Dark Lord forced everyone to train with her, but the problem was that they never seemed to listen to a damn thing she said.

Eventually she realized that she couldn't force them to adopt her superior techniques, nor could she fight their battles for them. Well, she really _could_ (in her sleep, no less), but what would be the point? Why interfere with the rule of nature by prolonging the lives of the brainless and the weak?

That first contingent of Aurors didn't last very long. She stunned perhaps five, another fell victim to the Carrows, one fainted when a Dementor flew right past his face, and the rest made a strategic retreat.

Somewhere in the distance, a child started screaming. Muggles couldn't see Dementors, of course, but they were still susceptible to their presence. They could still have their souls sucked out - and tonight, no doubt, many of them would. Was it worse to be drained of your life-force by a monster you couldn't see? How could it be, when even the darkest figment of the imagination could never compare to those black gaping mouths, those bottomless eye-sockets, those cadaverous claws?

Reinforcements for both sides were certainly coming, and the battle would soon recommence. But in that moment of calm, the others stood silent beside her, staring upward in terror and awe. Frozen, as if a natural disaster was unfolding before their eyes, and they could not look away. Bellatrix had never seen a volcano erupt, or a tsunami obliterate the shoreline, or even a tornado wrench a house from the earth, but tonight she could imagine the feeling was similar.

Finally, Bellatrix cast her eyes downward, and that's when she saw her. The girl.

She was just a dark silhouette beneath the glow of a street lamp, but with the wind whipping furiously through her robes, she looked more like a piece of the storm that had taken a human shape.

It was hard to come up with a worse time and place for a meeting than this, but her presence was a wordless demand that Bellatrix couldn't - or didn't want to - ignore.

Abruptly, the girl turned and walked down another street. The message was clear - _follow me._

And she did, grudgingly. She followed the girl for blocks and blocks along a winding route that led them away from the others, getting angrier with each step.

In some wretched little alley, the girl turned on her heel, bringing Bellatrix to a sudden stop behind her. She looked terribly pale and agitated again, her eyes flickering constantly up to the sky behind Bellatrix.

"This is _insane_ ," she burst out finally, her hands clenching helplessly into fists. "Completely _insane_. Everyone is going to _die_."

Was that an accusation in her tone, or was Bellatrix imagining it? As if this fiasco was somehow her fault - as if she could do anything about it at all!

"Then what the hell are you doing here?" she snarled. "More importantly, who tipped you off? Who is the Ministry's source?"

Irritably swatting the windswept hair from her face, the girl ignored the question completely. "I know you sent the book to Europe," she said instead. "And I bet it's probably passed through a dozen hands by now!"

Caught off guard by the change of subject, Bellatrix stared at her. She had holes in her Muggle jeans and mud on her Muggle trainers and some band she'd never heard of on her Muggle T-shirt. It was almost like the little chit had _no_ shame.

And the next words out of her mouth proved it: "Do you even _comprehend_ how incredibly dangerous that is?" she cried. "If anyone, god forbid, was able to translate the whole thing, what they could do with that information… They could destroy the timeline! They could ruin _everything_!"

The situation had turned so ridiculous so quickly that Bellatrix was tempted to laugh. Was she really standing here, in the midst of a Dementor-fueled apocalypse, being lectured by some teenage peasant about a _book_?

If it was someone else, she would have been furious. And the fury was there, simmering below the surface as always, but stronger than that was a perverse sort of satisfaction at seeing the girl so riled up.

Bellatrix was the picture of indifference as she said, "I don't see how that's worse than giving it to _you_."

"Because _I_ know what I'm doing!" the girl replied, petulantly crossing her arms.

And then Bellatrix really did laugh - well, it was more of a sarcastic bark, but it was something. And Narcissa claimed she never laughed. "You forget I was there the night Rockwood and Mintumble died…or exploded, or vanished, or whatever the hell happened to them. So, forgive me if I don't believe you. Besides, you're just a _child_ \- "

 _Right. You just keep telling yourself of that, Bella._

" - so there's no way you're working on your own. What coward has you running around doing his dirty work? Is it Dumbledore? Scrimgeour?"

A darkly humorous look flickered in the girl's eyes, and in the momentary flash of a lightning strike they glittered like amber. "I told you I didn't come on anyone's behalf," she said.

"Hmmm...I'm supposed to take your word for that, am I?"

"No you're supposed to stick to the deal we had!" came the frustrated response. "The book for information on Emmeline Vance."

"Well, there's a new deal, sweetheart. You tell me what you know or I start teaching you some manners." With an ominous twirl of her wand, Bellatrix took a step closer.

But the girl didn't back down. Instead, she gave a particularly indelicate snort. "Manners? I could learn better manners from a _troll_."

Before she even knew what she was doing, Bellatrix lunged at her. Her hand wrapped around the girl's neck - which turned out to be much less fragile than it looked - and forced her back into the wall. "What the fuck did you say to me?" she growled.

The girl clawed at her fingers, fighting to draw air into her lungs. "Y-you heard me," she rasped. The night air was frigid, but her breath on Bella's face was warm.

As if of its own volition, her hand spasmed and tightened its grip so she could feel her prey's blood pumping furiously in her veins. "You must have a death wish, little girl," she warned.

A hoarse chuckle forced its way from the girl's throat. "Oh, you have no idea."

Before Bellatrix could ponder this strange reply, she was thrown backwards with the force of the girl's silent spell. Falling into a roll, she was on her feet in a heartbeat, firing a curse right back.

The girl barely managed to throw up a hasty _Protego_ , clearly surprised by her opponent's lightning reflexes. Bellatrix had gone easy on her in the past, but if the little brat wanted a duel...a duel she would get.

Bellatrix Lestrange hadn't lost one in twenty years, and she wasn't about to start now.

They volleyed spells back and forth, and though the girl had solid technique, she was obviously tiring quickly. Like most, she became sloppy as her stamina waned, and into one of those lapses, Bellatrix snuck a well-placed hex.

The girl cried out as her wand was wrenched from her hand and she was thrown back. Her body contorted oddly, hit the wall with a sickening _crack_ , and crumpled in a heap of black robes.

A self-satisfied smirk graced her lips as Bellatrix approached her felled opponent. Nudging the girl with the tip of her boot drew a small groan - she was still alive.

"Is that all you've got?" she taunted. "Can't say I'm not disappointed, I really expected -"

But she couldn't finish because a terrible, crippling pain had suddenly seized her leg. She looked down to see the girl pressing some odd device to her ankle, before the pain overwhelmed her and everything went black.

* * *

It was impossible to tell how much time had passed when she woke, but she could tell that someone had dragged her indoors. Her body seemed impossibly rigid, almost as though it was under the effect of _Petrificus Totalus_ , except that she found she could twitch her fingers with effort.

 _Never mind. Bad idea, Bella_ , her nerves screamed in pain as she tried to lift her arm.

"Oh, thank God," came the relieved sigh, and Bellatrix opened her eyes a hair to see the girl leaning over her body.

Then, she felt the shiver of a spell on her skin, and sat upright in shock. "What the hell are you doing?" she rasped, voice painfully hoarse. The girl had a notebook in one hand a wand in the other, and she was carefully wrapping the Death Eater's ankle with a pale blue light."Get away from me!"

"No! Please!" the girl begged, grasping Bella's foot - now inexplicably bootless - to keep her in place. "I'm just trying to heal you. You have quite a bad burn."

"That you gave to me with that...that _thing_!" Bellatrix accused, wearily eyeing the strange black contraption on the floor. Was it going to attack her again? It looked inert just laying there, but you could never tell with these Muggle abominations, could you?

"Well, yes…" the girl admitted, sheepishly studying the little book in her lap. "But it wasn't supposed to happen like that! It was just supposed to send a small bit of electricity - "

" _Electricity_?" Bellatrix spat, shifting as far back from the girl and her demonic little implement as her aching limbs would allow. "Isn't that that evil Muggle magic that makes all their machines work?"

The girl gave her a strange look. "Uhhh, well, I guess you can put it like that...but it was just supposed to stun you for a second. I had to fix it so it functioned with magical energy and something must have gone wrong…" she trailed off into silence, staring at the device thoughtfully.

"Wrong? _Wrong_?" Bellatrix barked in disbelief, her previous anger surging back to the surface. "What did you expect, messing around with their barbaric weapons? You could have killed me! What did you think was going to happen?!"

"Well, it's a prototype I made," the girl explained, avoiding the older woman's piercing gaze, "And the thing is…" she shifted uncomfortably, "I hadn't exactly gotten around…" she studied her nails, gave a minute cough, and finally turned a guilty face to Bellatrix, "...to testing it yet."

Somehow, Bellatrix managed not to slap her right then - though it was a very close thing. Instead, she tore the book the girl was nervously twirling from her hands and looked at it. It was full of scribbled little notes.

The girl made to grab for it. "No, wait - "

But Bellatrix had already read what was written there. It seemed that while she'd been out cold, the girl had taken a full medical diagnostic scan and faithfully recorded the details. The page was titled _Trial 1: physical effects._

Bellatrix looked at her, not knowing whether to feel violated, revolted or amused. "So while I lay here - practically at death's door, mind you - you took a moment to take some _notes_. You really are something else, Granger."

The girl looked exceptionally uncomfortable, perhaps more so to hear her name on the Death Eater's lips. "Aren't you exaggerating just a _bit_?" she asked, snatching her notebook back and pocketing it. "I mean, you only got a bit burnt and lost consciousness for a few minutes. I, on the other hand, probably have some broken ribs from what you did to me."

Bellatrix shrugged. "It's a duel. People get cursed. But what you did…" She paused, searching for the right words to describe why she was so offended, "... it's just bad sportsmanship. It's _cheating_."

This, the girl contemplated for a long moment - so long that Bellatrix was about to offer to heal her just to fill the uncomfortable silence. But it was broken when the girl said, "I couldn't help but notice that you kept the Pendant."

Involuntarily, the Death Eater's fingers came up to trace the medal below the collar of her robe. "It's...come in handy once or twice," she admitted reluctantly. But the truth was that she could never have survived all those months trapped in the Dementor-infested Malfoy Manor without it.

The girl gave her a small smile. "I'm glad," she said, sounding improbably sincere. And Bellatrix, Merlin help her, was actually _grateful_.

Taking a little parcel from her inner robes, she tossed it on the floor with a sigh that sounded very much like resignation. "You'll be happy to know that I couldn't find anyone to translate your bloody book. So here - take it. It's useless to me."

It hadn't been her plan to give the girl the book, but she loathed the feeling of being indebted to someone. Now, the score was settled and she could walk away.

"May I?" the girl asked softly, gesturing at the older woman's ankle, which was still red and scorched. She ghosted her fingers over the broken skin there, and her touch itself was like fire.

Bellatrix jerked away, biting back a harsh breath. "No, I'll do it myself." She grabbed her boot from the floor and nearly fumbled putting it on. It was unbearably painful, but she schooled her features into their usual frigid mask. "I should go - "

" _I should go."_ Those were the last words she spoke to every woman she'd ever taken to bed, usually in the moments following climax. The parallel was unintentional, but the implications - not only of her slip, but of the way the girl was staring - unsettled her. Silently, she stood to leave, and her hand was already on the door when the girl spoke.

"Emmeline Vance was killed in self defense. By a Muggle she tried to attack."

 _Ah. Right. Emmeline Vance_. Bellatrix had intended to beat that information out of her tonight, but had forgotten. Or been very thoroughly distracted. Turning on her heel, she saw the girl had risen to her feet and followed her across the room. "And why would she do that?" she asked slowly, trying to gage how much the girl really knew.

"The Aurors think she was under the Imperius curse."

Bellatrix narrowed her eyes in suspicion. "If she was killed by a Muggle, who cast the Dark Mark over her body?"

"I did," the girl confessed, obviously trying to suppress a self-satisfied grin. "To point the Ministry in the right direction. It was your people, wasn't it, who put the curse on her?"

 _The bloody nerve!_ Bellatrix thought, shaking her head in disbelief. To pull a harebrained stunt like that was one thing, but to _admit it_ so smugly to the most dangerous witch in England?

She took a menacing step forward. "Do you have _any_ idea how many problems you've caused me?" she hissed. "The Dark Lord is furious!"

"Well, let me make it up to you, then," the girl murmured, taking her own step so that they stood uncomfortably close once again. She had all the clumsy persistence of a stubborn sixteen-year-old Gryffindor - which, Bellatrix realized with a queasy lurch in her stomach - was probably exactly what she _was_.

"Fine," she snapped, imperceptibly shifting away from the girl. "You can do some research for me."

The girl's pupils seemed impossibly dilated as she stared hazily back. "Research?"

"Yes, you're good at digging up dirt, aren't you?" There was a sardonic edge in her voice as Bellatrix recalled the way the girl spoke of reading her file. "I want information on Scrimgeour's involvement in something called Operation Mooncalf."

"But why are you asking me? This is something you can't do yourself?"

"It's not really my style," Bellatrix told her with a shrug. "I get my information from of other people - whether they want to give it to me or not."

And _that_ seemed to snap the girl from her daze, as though she finally realized exactly who she was talking to.

"Besides..." Bellatrix went on, forcing herself to ignore the girl's suddenly weary demeanor, "I think it might be mutually beneficial. Don't you want some leverage on the man who's got you on his bureaucratic little leash?"

The girl seemed to think for a moment, and then her mouth formed a grim line. "Actually, I really do."


	29. Chapter 29

Hello all! Thank you to those who reviewed. It's really a pleasure to see what folks think of the story, and very helpful as well. Special thanks to ArielApostolos and MilandaAnza for your thoughtful comments.

'Blob' asked about my favorite authors, fanfiction or otherwise. I am unfortunately not a big fan-fiction reader, but I will say that this story was very loosely inspired by "The Master and Margarita" by Bulgakov.

Another reader left a comment about the pendant Bellatrix wears acting like psychiatric drugs, and I have to admit I've never thought of it quite like that. It is, however a very interesting idea that I could try to incorporate.

I have the sense that people are getting impatient for progress in the Bellatrix/Hermione relationship, but I feel like there is a right moment for everything. To me, theirs is a very one-step-forward, two-steps-back dynamic.

So, on that disheartening note, **here is another chapter for those of you who are following Bella's backstory.** **Otherwise, feel free to skip.**

* * *

 _1973_.

On Bellatrix's list of insufferable family obligations, graduations easily took first place. Appalling as a funeral or a wedding might be, both had their compensations, however meager. There was the free booze, of course (most important in Bella's estimation). There was the petty one-upmanship of the society ladies, carried out with such fanatic vitriol it could have been its own bloodsport. And there was always that one crier who sounded like a wounded bison and never failed to send her and Andy into fits of uncontrollable giggling.

But graduations were another beast altogether. Four hours of sitting in a simmering morass of other people's body odor, listening to Flitwick wheeze about the accomplishments of every one of these precious morons who'd warmed a seat for seven years… it was enough to make you want to take a stroll off the roof.

Arms crossed sulkily across her chest, Bellatrix began to rock her chair on its legs, and was rewarded with a warning smack from her mother.

"You know they already called Cissy ages ago," Bellatrix stage-whispered, drawing a round of glares from the people in front. "Remind me again why we can't we leave?"

"Because it's rude, Bellatrix," Druella whispered back in annoyance. "Now _shush_."

"But Muuummmm…." she whined like a child, belying her 22 years. "I'm. _So. Bloody. Bored_."

"I said shush! Unless you want me to put you next to the Malfoys for the reception?" Druella threatened. On her other side, Andromeda, as prim and annoyingly well-behaved as always, let out a soft snort at the exchange.

"Oh dear Merlin, please no!" Bellatrix moaned dramatically, clutching the front of her robes. " _Anything_ but that!"

She said it just to annoy the neighbors in the aisles, not because she had plans of staying for the reception at all. But Druella seemed to guess her intentions, because as the ceremony concluded, she grabbed her eldest by the elbow and practically dragged her onto the green, where the house-elves had outdone themselves with a banquet fit for an army.

Under the beady eyes of Walburga, McGonagall, and her mother, Bellatrix morosely picked at the floating trays of hors d'oeuvres and tried to make small talk. But the day went from bad to worse, as days were wont to do. The weather was blistering, her dress robes were unbearably itchy, and Andromeda was having another awkwardly public spat with her wizard.

Like a novice, Longbottom tried to ply her with sweets. "I got you your favorite," he told her, holding a pumpkin pastry in his outstretched hand like a peace offering. "Maybe it will make you feel better."

Andromeda's answering glare let him know exactly what she thought of his efforts.

"No thanks," she bit out, eyeing the innocent confection with utmost disgust. "It smells revolting. I feel like I'm gonna throw up."

The poor boy shuffled his feet nervously, obviously trying to rally that infamous Gryffindor courage. "Andy… " he looked at her, and then decided to plunge right in. "Is something going on with you? You've been...erm, a little off for weeks."

Andromeda's voice was deceptively even as she spoke, but Bellatrix knew it was just the warning rumble before the explosion. " _Off_?"

Longbottom scratched his head, clearly oblivious to the fire he was so thoughtlessly stoking. "Well, you bit my head off the other day because I put an extra sugar in your tea. And you didn't want to go to the Muggle films last night. And…" he looked at her with the bewildered devotion of a puppy whose owner refused to play fetch, "... you love Muggle films."

"No I don't," Andromeda declared in thinly-veiled fury. "Actually, I _hate_ them. I hate every stupid, stinking, useless, last one of them!"

"Since when? And why?"

He needn't have asked, because she launched her tirade without hearing a word he said. "Because you get used to things being a certain way, and then you have certain expectations - which, by the way are completely reasonable and normal to have! - and then BAM!" She brought her fist down into her open palm with a scowl. "They just knock everything out from under your feet and make you feel like _you're_ the crazy, hysterical one for thinking that things are going in a particular direction, when they made you believe it in the first place! It's completely and totally unfair! And cruel!"

"Wait," Longbottom cut in, perplexed. "Are we still talking about films?"

"I don't know! Would you please just stop _hounding_ me, Frank?" Andromeda cried, balling her fists so the knuckles went white. "I can't take anymore of this! I'm going to… to...somewhere that's not here," she finished rather lamely, stalking off into the crowd with a last lingering scowl at her eavesdropping sister. Her fiancée, meanwhile, gave Bellatrix a puzzled shrug and followed the irate witch at a careful distance.

It was a pity their relationship seemed to be going south, Bellatrix thought. At one point they had been friends, which was really the best possible situation for an arranged couple. But Andromeda was apparently too much of a fool to recognize a good thing when it was sitting right under her nose. No one would guess it by looking at her, but Andy had always had a longing for danger, adventure, and drama bordering on the reckless. Maybe it was because she'd always been such a stick in the mud herself, but poor, straight-laced, dependable Frank was just not exciting enough, it seemed.

"Look, there's your sister," came the welcome intrusion as Fawley sidled up behind her with a couple of butterbeers.

 _Not Fawley. Alice_ , Bellatrix reminded herself, taking the proffered bottle. The girl now insisted on being addressed by her first name, ever since Bellatrix had accidentally called her "Fawley" while in the throes of passion.

Taking the first cooling sip, Bellatrix watched her youngest sister descend the stairs in her formal alumna robes. Escorting her was none other than Lucius Malfoy, Narcissa's betrothed and general pompous pain-in-the-arse. "Oh, look. She's brought Wonder Boy along," Bellatrix sneered, watching the sunlight glint off his long pale mane with distaste. "Fantastic."

Beside her, Alice snorted. "Must be our lucky day. Excuse me while I faint in adoration."

A gaggle of screaming reporters waylaid the pair, eager, no doubt, to get a front-page photo of the year's most celebrated and attractive couple. Lucius preened for the cameras while Narcissa stood stiffly beside him, wearing a practiced smile that must have called upon every ounce of her upper-crust pureblood upbringing. To the observant eye, her posture was an odd mix of resignation, revulsion, and pride. But only her sisters knew how much she despised the wizard beside her, though Andromeda still clung to the hope that Cissy would one day overcome familial expectations and run away for the sake of love.

But Bellatrix knew better. Those two - Andromeda and Narcissa - were like fire and ice. The middle sister wanted her life to resemble some swashbuckling bodice-ripper, while the youngest aspired to a place among the Wizarding aristocracy, with all the servants, dinner parties, and exquisite gowns that entailed. Love - or the diligent imitation of it, in this case - was just a means for Narcissa to get what she really wanted: status, admiration, and envy.

Alice, Bellatrix was relieved to discover, shared her contempt for the self-absorbed git her sister was marrying. "I bet he's got the very best manicure at the party. Your parents must be _thrilled_ ," she snarked, sparing Bella a smile that made her weak with desire.

Realizing Narcissa had spotted her, and seemed intent on dragging Malfoy along to say hello, Bellatrix downed her drink in one gulp. "Well, I think that's my cue."

"Please, don't leave me here!" Alice begged, urgently grabbing her arm. "I'm not nearly drunk enough to deal with those two right now."

"Oh no, darling," Bellatrix purred with a devious smirk. "You're coming with me. You and I are going to get...reacquainted with that old boat house."

"What?" Alice gasped, looking scandalized. "No! The grounds are positively _crawling_ with people. We'll get caught for sure."

" _Tsk, tsk._ Cowardice in the face of adversity, Fawley?," Bellatrix mocked, leaning inappropriately close to whisper in the girl's ear, which drew a very satisfying shudder. "What would Moody say?"

"Umm, he'd probably tell you to get your hands off my bum. We're in _public_."

And indeed, the hawk-eyed Head of Gryffindor was eyeing them suspiciously from across the green, while an oblivious Dumbledore happily munched on a scone beside her. Bellatrix sent the woman her cheekiest wink, and was glad to see McGonagall's face stiffen in shock. They'd have to feed her to the Inferi before she would admit it, but once upon a clumsy adolescence, the eldest Black had had a smidgen of a crush on her Transfiguration professor. But long had it been since she gave up the hope of unveiling the great mystery of whether the Scottish witch did or did not wear tartan knickers.

Lazily snaking her fingers under Fawley's coat, Bellatrix found the soft skin of her lower back and drew figure-eights until her victim's breath grew shallow. "What if I just start fucking you right here, then?" she murmured against the shell of her ear, feeling the stares of the crowd upon them and not caring a bit. "Right on that table with the punch? Wouldn't you like that? I'm sure they'd all enjoy the sounds you make as much as I do."

With a casual flick of her wrist, Bellatrix vanished the girl's bra from beneath her shirt, imagining rather than seeing her nipples immediately harden. Fawley bit her lip. "No? Well, come along then."

As they walked from the party, Bellatrix kept her wand discreetly aimed at her lover's back, continuing the ruse of a kidnapping - a game the younger witch particularly enjoyed.

The boathouse reeked of mildew and kelp, and they had to evict a couple of amorous fifth years to secure it, but all in all, it was a decent spot. They shared a joint in silence, watching the water lap rhythmically against the wooden husks of the row boats.

And finally, just as Fawley breathed a contented sigh and toed off her shoes to slip her feet in the lake, Bellatrix pounced. She dragged the girl up by the scruff of her robes and pushed her into the wall. Before Alice could even gasp in surprise, Bella's hands were under her shirt roughly palming both breasts.

Alice arched into the touch, even as her face grew mutinous. "What the hell are you doing?" she asked, and her voice came out half-moan, and half-reproach.

"Don't play coy with me," Bellatrix snarled, making quick work of her zipper and tugging her jeans to her knees. "You know exactly what I'm doing. Be good and I won't make it hard for you."

Her desperate fingers found the girl wet and ready, and Bellatrix stifled her groan against Fawley's neck. She smelled like smoke and summer flowers and sweat. It was intoxicating, and Bellatrix was drunk on her scent, her soft moans, the body bending so easily to her desire.

With a wave of her wand, a whip-like serpent emerged from the tip to wrap snugly around her lover's neck. She waited for the first pained gasp before spearing the girl with her fingers, held the spell for a second more, and finally, released Fawley to take in shuddering breaths.

"Bella…." she rasped, mindlessly pumping herself against the hand inside her all the while, "I think I hear voices."

"Good," Bellatrix purred, licking a wide swath across a straining shoulder before biting down. "Maybe I want people to know that you're mine."

Alice opened her mouth to retort, but the conjured serpent was suddenly back to choke the words away. Over the months of their fleeting encounters, Bellatrix had found that the girl always wanted it like this - merciless, fast, and impersonal. She didn't want to be kissed so much as devoured, nor fucked so much as tormented. And Bellatrix understood the role she was expected to play, and endeavored to please. Never before had she been so clearly confronted with her own desperate need for control, nor gazed so long into the deepest abyss of her soul. It was exhilarating to hold the power of life and death over the squirming witch before her, to test herself. Would she relent? Would she extinguish that treacherous fire that burned in her lover's eyes?

Once again, Bellatrix set the girl free, releasing the spell.

"Deny it as much as you like," she growled over Fawley's rapid panting. "But you know all those fools you run around with will never make you feel as good as I do. Will they?" She pinched the girl's clit hard for emphasis, drawing a pained moan.

" _Will they_?" Bellatrix repeated - softer, almost uncertain, and the broken momentum caused Fawley to look her in the eye for the first time. It was disconcertingly intimate, and she soon looked away.

"I - " Alice began, but was cut short as the door opened, and in that infinitesimal moment before the other shoe fell, Bellatrix cursed herself for forgetting the wards.

There in the doorway, as though plucked right from her nightmares, stood both of her sisters wearing identical looks of horror.

Andromeda was the first to snap out of it. "Get away from her!" she cried furiously, pointing her wand at the pair.

For a second Bellatrix wondered who was supposed to be getting away from whom - and then she realized how she must look, pressing the gasping, red-faced, defenseless Ravenclaw up against the wall at wand-point. Immediately, she stepped back.

Fawley, light-headed and having lost her support, sagged to the floor. "Oh, no," she moaned, flushing deep pink as she fumbled with her underclothes. Finally she stood, sent the intruders a painfully embarrassed look, and ran from the boathouse.

Watching this graceless escape, Bellatrix bit off an angry sigh and turned to her sisters. Andromeda still had her wand out, though it was no longer pointing straight at her. It seemed she had opted to punish Bellatrix with her glare instead.

The silence stretched long as they stood there, until Narcissa gave an uncomfortable little cough. "We were looking for you," she said in a tiny voice, gazing steadily at a spot over her shoulder. "We couldn't find you anywhere."

"That should have clued you in to the fact that I didn't want to be found, shouldn't it?" she growled, almost - but not quite - toying with the idea of _Obliviating_ them.

"What the hell _was_ that?" Andy burst out, gesturing at the corner they'd used as if a terrible monster had lived there.

"Why don't you mind your own fucking business?" Bellatrix sneered.

It was times like this when she really hated Andromeda and her whole holier-than-thou, perfect-princess, never-had-a-dirty-thought-in-her-life bullshit persona. "Or better yet, go ask Fawley."

* * *

The days that followed were intensely awkward. Fortunately, Bellatrix had more than enough work to justify keeping a cot at the office, and saw her flat-mates only in passing - just long enough to catch their accusing glares as they sat together at breakfast. Andromeda obviously _had_ asked Fawley, and whatever the girl had told her, they were back to being the best of friends, united against Bellatrix once more.

But she didn't have time to wonder at Andy's perpetually red-rimmed eyes or the abrupt disappearance of Longbottom. The Department was in chaos a following a series of attacks against civilians by the forces of "You Know Who". The entire office was practically swimming in half-finished paperwork and you could hardly sneeze without someone calling an emergency meeting about it.

And Merlin, how she _loathed_ meetings. Trainees were usually exempt from this ritualized torment, but the situation was dire enough that even the lowliest of underlings were being forced into the field.

"I want the werewolf thing," demanded Bellatrix, before Moody even had the case-files on the table. He ignored her - save for a snort which belied equal parts irritation and fatigue - kicking out his chair and sagging into it gratefully.

The 'werewolf thing' was the gruesome murder of a Knockturn Alley proprietor by a killer who clearly enjoyed the taste of human flesh. The others stared at her wearily, wondering who in their right mind would possibly volunteer for that; it was a case no one wanted to touch with a ten-foot broom.

No one except for Bellatrix, of course. She saw it as a chance to prove herself to the Department Heads, who, after two years of watching her soar far ahead of the other recruits, still considered her little more than a rather recalcitrant source of information on her family's dealings.

"No dice, kid," Moody rasped, casually shuffling through his papers as he decided their fates. "I gave it to Scrimgeour."

"Fine," she bit out, disappointed but not surprised to lose the case to a fully-certified Auror. She quickly moved on to plan B."What about that Giant sighting in Scotland?"

Moody pinned her with a look of suspicion."And how did you hear about that, hmm? It wasn't in the bulletin. Wasn't in the Prophet either."

As though from habit, Bellatrix goaded him with a shrug and an inscrutable little smirk, but kept her mouth firmly shut.

"Never mind," Moody sighed at last. He'd long ago figured out that writing her up for insubordination and bad attitude accomplished nothing. Surely somewhere in the bowels of the Ministry, collecting dust, was an entire filing cabinet dedicated to the complaints brought against Trainee-Auror Black. "I sent Longbottom up there yesterday."

"Longbottom?" she repeated in disbelief. "We're talking about _Frank_ Longbottom, yes? The one who _cried_ the first time he saw a Thestral?"

Moody let out one of his trademark laughs, the sound reminding her of the death-rattle of a stuck pig. "Thought it might do the boy good to face down a giant. Put some hair on his chest. But don't you worry, Black. I've got something for you right here." He took a file from his stack and slid it to her across the table.

Guardedly, Bellatrix opened the cover and scanned the incident report, her eyes growing wider with each line. Finally, she looked up at him, her face a mask of outrage.

" _Muggles_?" she choked out.

"That's right," Moody grinned. "Somebody's been playing some nasty pranks on them. Confounding them, dangling them in the air, setting gnomes after them, and the like."

To say Bellatrix was affronted was an understatement. No, she was enraged, murderous, livid - but not surprised. She could bloody well cure Dragon Pox, find the Fountain of Youth, and vanquish He Who Must Not Be Named single-handed, and the Ministry would still have her filing broom citations and fetching coffee.

"Can't you send it to Improper Use or the Obliviators or something?" she argued sensibly, trying her hardest to keep her twitching fingers off her wand. "It's probably just some little tosser with too much time on his hands."

"No case is too small for the Auror Department, Black," he said with a mocking lilt. "Now, get to it."

There was a protest on the tip of her tongue, but the look on his face told her that it was pointless. She snatched her file from the table and walked to the door.

"And I expect an actual report on my desk in the morning," Moody went on. "Not a beer coaster with 'come ask me yourself, you bastard' scribbled on it."

"We'll see," she ground out, letting the door slam closed behind her, startling the little flock of Ministry owls perched above in the rafters. Soaring down upon her, they flew across the hall where the Auros kept their desks and out to the Atrium, in search of another place to roost. Or perhaps, to freedom.

If only she were so lucky. But no - she had to stay and track down these pranksters, a task which proved less than challenging due to their carelessness. 'Untraceable' wands were a Knut a dozen in Knockturn Alley, but it was an amateur criminal indeed who dared to use one. Most of the wands on the black market were shoddily-mended Auror cast-offs, and were thus easier to track than the average.

And that was how Rabastan and Rodolphus Lestrange ended up sat across from her in the interrogation room. On the table between them were three battered mugs with coffee - what the Aurors fondly referred to as Troll Piss Roast, the Ministry's favorite brew. The wizards had turned their noses up at the first whiff, but after two years of obnoxiously long work days, Bellatrix wasn't so picky.

She downed it all in a couple of gulps, then fixed the pair with an unimpressed gaze.

Just as Rabastan was beginning to fidget in the uncomfortable silence, she said, "And here I was imagining you two moved back to France, settled down... grew the fuck up, maybe. Don't know _what_ I was thinking."

"Well, that makes three of us, Bells," Rodolphus countered in that nasally, self-important whine she remembered from school. "Imagine our surprise to find that, after all these years, you've gone and joined the dark side." He looked almost rueful as he shook his head, his gaze trailing coldly over her second-hand work robes. "Would've never pegged you as the type to become another Ministry sheep."

"You used to be fun, you know," Rabastan added, his cherub-like features pinched in distaste. It seemed that the years had been kind to the Lestranges; their boyish good-looks were unmarred, and the expensive cut of their robes told Bellatrix that they had finally come into their trust funds.

 _Lucky bastards_ , she thought, knowing she probably looked like a Basilisk's half-eaten supper right now. Still, she refused to squirm under their scrutiny.

"My idea of fun does not involve going around hexing Muggles for sport," she said, grudgingly adding, "...well, not these days."

Rabastan's grin was almost nostalgic. "You only say that because _you_ never got caught."

"No, I say it because we're not fifteen anymore," she huffed, annoyed by their casual attitude. "And stop smirking. You don't realize how serious this is."

"What's the big deal?" Rodolphus shrugged. "We didn't do them any harm, just scared them a bit. So, we'll get a slap on the wrist, make a strategic donation, and be on our merry way."

"That may have worked a few years ago, but not now. We're on the brink of war, and people want to see the Ministry cracking down hard on anything with even a whiff of Dark Magic," Bellatrix explained. "Things like _this_ \- " she pointed to one of the photos from their case-file, of a terrified Muggle being hoisted up by the ankle, " - are a publicity nightmare for the Department. They'll want your head on a spike."

"No, it's out of the question," Rabastan declared, his bottom lip sinking into a pout. "Lestranges do not do Azkaban."

"Your name's not going to work in your favor, either. You know these Ministry bastards always wanted to take us down a few pegs, make an example of us. This war is the perfect excuse to do it."

She'd spoken without thinking, and was surprised to realize she still classed herself with the old pureblood families, and not with the Ministry she was supposed to be representing. It was in only then that she finally admitted she'd never be part of the Ministry 'us', or even the Auror 'us', because they refused to accept her, and because she truly did believe herself far above them.

"Oh, Bellatrix…" Rodolphus crooned, his cologne a sucker-punch to her senses as he leaned in too close. "Just look at my brother, here. You know he has the blood of royalty in his veins. His constitution is delicate. Refined. You think he's cut out for prison? They'd eat him alive in there!"

Rabastan nodded somberly along as his brother turned the charm all the way up. "Have mercy! Have mercy, my dear, sweet Bellatrix."

His efforts were utterly wasted on her, of course, but the complete lack of self-consciousness in the plea was refreshing. She'd once had that kind of gleeful entitlement too... before the Ministry beat it out of her with enforced, thankless drudgery.

"You want me to let you off…" she asked, quirking an amused eyebrow. "Just like that?"

The truth was she didn't give a shit about their supposed 'crime' - found it, at worst, pathetically juvenile and an utter waste of her (and the Department's) time. But all of her warnings had been sincere; in the current climate they would assuredly go to prison. And was that really fair?

"For old times' sake." Rodolphus reached for her hand on the table, but she snatched it away. It seemed he'd forgotten that she'd never been one of his groupies at school. In fact, he'd been hers.

There was a considering gleam in her eye as she said, "You know I don't do favors for free."

A silent understanding passed between them, and Rodolphus nodded his unspoken assent. "You would have our parents' undying gratitude, I promise you. And a Lestrange's word is worth its weight in gold."

* * *

Even as a witch who'd mastered the _Scourgify_ charm, there was only so long Bellatrix could go without having a bath. So, that same evening saw her make the reluctant return to her flat, which, after all of her anxious avoidance, turned out to be rather anticlimactic.

Surprisingly, Andromeda had the Quidditch World Cup on the wireless as she stood by the bookcase, sorting her collection into neat piles on the floor. She didn't even look up from her task as Bellatrix stepped through the flames.

Somehow, it had slipped her mind that the Finals were being held this week. It was probably because she'd been practically living at the office, but the realization still caught her off guard. A few years ago she would have been frantically scouring Diagon for last-minute tickets, but now she barely had enough energy to kick off her boots and flop on the couch.

It was not as gratifying as it might have been, though, for someone had piled the cushions with stacks upon stacks of parchment. She picked a sheet off the top.

" _Our Centaur friends deserve justice too_!" the page proclaimed in a particularly garish font. " _Oppose the Magical Creatures Registration Act_!" Below, someone had drawn a tragic little stick-figure centaur with an enormous frown on his face.

"Where's Fawley?" Bellatrix snapped in her sister's direction.

"Wouldn't _you_ like to know," came the biting response as Andromeda turned to her, disapproval writ large on her face.

"I would, actually. She needs to get these damn fliers off my couch before I set them on fire."

"She's gone to stay with her parents," Andromeda told her, shoving a book into place with more force than was necessary. "I hope you're proud of yourself, Bellatrix."

 _Ah. Of course they couldn't just bloody well let it go_. It seemed she had let down her guard too soon.

Suddenly, the tension in the room was stifling. Bellatrix gave an uncomfortable cough, and began to tidy the fliers just to keep her hands occupied. "What are you talking about?"

"Well, you couldn't exactly expect her to hang around here after what you did to her!" Andromeda cried, as though she couldn't quite believe her sister would dare to play dumb.

"Again, I ask" Bellatrix repeated stiffly, "What the hell are you talking about?"

The look on Andromeda's face was incredulous. "You - you _hurt_ her! You made her do something horrible!"

Of all accusations, this one was like ice in her veins.

"Is that … is that what she told you?" And the other, unspoken question, the one she couldn't bear to ask: _Is that really what you think of me?_

"She didn't have to tell me. I saw it!" Andromeda yelled in her face, "I saw it with my own eyes!"

"You don't know _what_ you saw," Bellatrix spat, her hurt morphing into anger in an instant.

"I couldn't believe it," the younger witch raved, restlessly pacing the floor as she always did when she was upset. "After everything that happened, after everything you've been through, after what that swine Pollux Carrow did to you…" her voice broke as she spoke, "...how could you turn around and do it to someone else?"

Bellatrix was very proud of the fact that she'd never given into the sometimes-overwhelming temptation to slap her middle sister silly. She'd never been closer to it than at that moment, however.

"I know you've always been angry. I know you've always had problems," the younger witch went on, "But I _never_ imagined that you would go _that_ far. Poor Alice broke down when she told me what happened."

"Well, I have news for you," Bellatrix sneered, hardly believing how calm her voice sounded. "Your friend is a filthy little liar. She told you that because she's embarrassed to have been caught with a woman." Spitefully, she added, "We all know how you are."

"How _I_ am? What does that have to do with anything?"

"You're a closed-minded, judgemental little shit, Andy. You'd rather believe I'm a monster than admit that not everybody wants to live in your conventional little happily-ever-after dreamland."

"I know they don't!" Andromeda argued, but looked uneasy, as if she'd begun to doubt her own words. She seemed to ponder a moment before coming to some conclusion. "But I also happen to know that Alice wants a husband and a normal life. Why you had to go and drag her into your … _behavior_ , I can't imagine."

"Oh she came willingly, my dear," Bellatrix purred, her eyes glinting with mischief. "And then she came again." Her smile grew wider as she approached her sister, who was looking more awkward by the moment. "And _again_."

The younger witch held up her hand. "Don't … don't say anymore."

"But I haven't even told you how much she likes getting spanked."

Andromeda blanched, and the sight nearly made Bellatrix laugh out loud.

"I, umm -" Andy cleared her throat, and then went on with forced nonchalance, "I started my rotation in Artefact Accidents today. You wouldn't believe this one patient we had. Apparently he'd swallowed a cursed watch and couldn't stop ticking. Just _ticking_ really loudly, all day long. Drove the nurses completely nuts. And you? Good day at work, then?"

Bellatrix quirked her brow at this clumsy diversion, but decided to give the girl a break. After all, if this was anyone's fault, it was Fawley's.

"What do you think?" she grumbled, sinking into the little clearing she had made on the couch. "I had to chase down some morons who decided to curse a Muggle in broad daylight in the middle of London." There was really no need to tell her who the morons in question were. "And to add insult to injury, I lost the better assignment to your dud of a fiancée."

Andromeda seemed stricken at that and was silent for a long moment. "I...I suppose you have a right to know," she sighed at last. "Frank is not my fiancée anymore. I'm leaving him."

"No, you're not," Bellatrix said immediately, hardly acknowledging her words.

"But I _am_ ," the younger witch insisted. "The truth is...well, the truth is there's someone else."

"Oh, Circe's tits, please don't tell me it's that Muggle-loving prat from St Mungo's?" she tossed out - as a joke really - but the shifty look on her sister's face told her everything she needed to know.

Bellatrix shook her head, stunned. "Gods, you are _such_ a bloody hypocrite. Preaching to me about _my_ behavior while you're the one who's cheating on Longbottom. And not _just_ cheating, mind you, but cheating with a Mudblood!"

Two splotches of furious red appeared on Andromeda's cheeks. "Don't you dare call him that! Ted is just wonderful…and exciting...and clever... and sweet…" Her eyes glazed over briefly as she thought of the boy, and the sight made Bella's stomach churn. "I'm not going to give him up for the sake of some awful loveless marriage," she went on with passion. "Look what that did to Mum! I'd rather die than end up like that!"

Bellatrix ran an exasperated hand through her hair, wondering if the girl realized how ridiculous she sounded. Andy had ended up a with a fiancée who was not only tolerable, but willing to bend over backwards to accommodate her - the arranged marriage equivalent of winning the lottery - but it wasn't enough for her.

And yet…and yet, she remebered herself at that age, saying similar words to her own mother. It had seemed like the end of the world back then, and in its own way, it had been. It was the end of childhood.

"But it's all been arranged for a decade. Mother spent a small fortune getting that contract," she pointed out with what she thought was extraordinary patience. "Don't you realize there's more at stake here than who's better at getting you off? How can you be so selfish?"

Andromeda twisted her hands in her lap, torn, it seemed, between keeping silent and speaking her piece. But the pained words seemed determined to come. "I...I'm not just thinking about myself."

Bellatrix was glad she was sitting down, because it felt as if someone had knocked the wind out of her. "You're _pregnant_?" she barely managed to choke out. "You were supposed to be the smart one Andy. How could you be so _stupid_?"

In that moment, Andromeda looked more lost and vulnerable than she could ever remember seeing her. "What would you have me do?" she asked in a strangled whisper, and the question seemed to bring all the feelings she had been holding back flooding up to the surface. She let out a tortured sob, then another at her sister's look of utter disgust.

"If you had two brain cells to rub together, you would get rid of it!" Bellatrix hissed.

Andromeda seemed horrified by the suggestion, and hugged herself protectively. "I'm not completely heartless!"

The unspoken ' _unlike you_ ' hung heavy between them, and Bellatrix bristled at the suggestion that she ought to have had more compassion for some barely-formed parasite than she did for herself.

"No, you're just a fucking idiot!" she growled at the younger girl. "You think he's going to marry you, and you'll live happily ever after and raise your little half-blood brat?"

Andromeda held her head a fraction higher, and said with a certainty she couldn't have felt, "Yes, yes I do."

"Then you're naive. What do you know about having a baby? You're barely out of nappies yourself!" She gave the girl a scathing once-over. "Mother coddled you for eighteen years, and now _I've_ been coddling you! You don't cook, or clean, or even pay rent, for Merlin's sake!"

Defensive, Andromeda crossed her arms. "I don't need a lecture about being an adult from a witch with the emotional maturity of a twelve-year-old."

"Fine, let me spell it out for you then," Bellatrix snapped, before continuing mercilessly, "You're going to get disowned. You won't have any money. You won't be able to work. What are you going to do when your Mudblood gets bored of you? Come crawling back _here_?"

She'd thrown all of this in her face to force the girl to see reason, but in only seemed to make Andromeda more defiant.

"That would never happen. He loves me," she declared, as if daring her sister to suggest otherwise. " And I love him."

"You _think_ you love him - "

"I _know_ I do." The glare she gave Bellatrix was acidic. "You wouldn't understand the feeling, I guess. You've never loved anyone in your miserable life."

Bellatrix opened her mouth to respond, but shut it abruptly. How could she argue, after all? She had never loved, and was grateful for that. Love was like a noose that you tied around your own neck, and handed the rope to somebody else. Would they set you free? Lead you around for the rest of your life like a dog? Or would they push you and watch you swing?

She looked at Andromeda's pale, frightened face and thought suddenly of Eileen Prince. The brute of a Muggle she married, her pitiful child playing games in the dirt, the filthy house she was trapped in, the bruises she'd been so careful to conceal….and worst of all, the palpable grief over losing her legacy, her heritage, and her magic. It was a fate she would never wish on anyone, let alone her sister.

"I'm not going to let you throw your life away, Andy."

Andromeda shook her head and stood, her fists clenching with determination. "You can't stop me."

She walked to her half-sorted books and began to magick them into a shoebox, but haphazardly, as if she had given up on what Bellatrix now realized was a campaign of organized packing.

The realization was a surprisingly painful one. "I'll tell Father!" Bellatrix called after her furiously, not really sure if she meant it or not, but knowing it was the worst threat she could make.

Andromeda had gone into her bedroom, and yelled back through the open door. "Tell him! I don't care!" When she returned, she was holding an owl-cage and a suitcase, seeming to Bellatrix like a soldier preparing to go into battle with only the flimsiest weapons. "The sooner they all know, the better. And if they don't like it, they can all go to hell!"

Dazed, Bellatrix watched her walk to the fireplace. She couldn't believe it was really happening. "Where - where do you think you're going?" she managed at last. "I haven't finished with you!"

"Yes, you have," Andromeda replied calmly, grabbing a handful of powder from the tin on the shelf. "Goodbye, Bella." She gave her one last, pained look, then stepped through the flames and was gone.

It had been a very long time since Bellatrix cried. But that night she walked around the flat, aimlessly picking up the various things she and Andy had acquired over the years, tears streaming down her face.

Merlin, how she _hated_ that girl. Bellatrix had risked so much - sacrificed _so_ much - to make a home for the two of them, and Andy had thrown it all away without a second thought. For a _Mudblood_. For _love_.

She couldn't understand it. It was the most pointless and perverse of betrayals.

Hours went by as she circled the sitting room, until finally her feet took her to Fawley's door. The room beyond had been emptied too, save for a cloak of hers Fawley had borrowed, now folded neatly on top of the bed. Alice must have known of her sister's intentions, and had run off like a coward rather than face Bellatrix on her own.

And so, she found herself completely alone once again.


End file.
